


30 Days of Sherlock

by Winklepicker



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: 30 Days of Sherlock, 30 day challenge, Crack, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-08-12 07:45:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 21,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7926421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winklepicker/pseuds/Winklepicker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>30 days of Sherlocky goodness for 30 prompts from the mind of @unremarkableawakenings originally for the Star Wars fandom. </p><p>You can find the list <a href="http://atlinmerrick.tumblr.com/post/149555897153/30-day-challenge-sherlock">here</a> and many thanks to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick/pseuds/AtlinMerrick">AtlinMerrick</a> for inviting me along for the 30 day ride.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day 1 - Shopping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shopping for Sherlock--A Painful Tale by John H Watson

  
_And a 500g container of caustic soda – SH_  
  
John read the text and sighed.  
  
_This better be for cleaning purposes only_. 

No reply. John stood in front of the washing detergents deciding whether to stick with traditional powder or maybe try something different. A little voice in his head—which lately may or may not have taken on the exact tone and cadence of Sherlock’s voice—said, go on, live a little. John decided this was fine advice and grabbed a bottle of liquid detergent. His phone buzzed.  
  
_Did you find the steel wool? - SH_  
  
John sighed again. He was very good at it and had developed a particular way of sighing for all manner of emotions and situations. In the coming months and years, Sherlock would spend many hours cataloguing these and creating a John Sigh-to-English/English-to-John Sigh dictionary.  
  
_They don’t have 50 pounds of steel wool. I got three packets, that’s all they have._  
  
_Get some more – SH_  
  
_They don’t have any._  
  
_Go somewhere else – SH_  
  
John pinched the bridge of his nose. He decided to ignore the request, no—the demand. Sherlock could get his own experimental supplies. John was not his personal servant and pack horse. Fifty pounds indeed.  
  
He rounded the corner into the pet food aisle and fleetingly thought, wouldn’t it be nice to have a puppy. Then he fleetingly thought about leaving Sherlock alone with a puppy. Then he stopped thinking about that altogether and tried very hard to think about something else. His phone buzzed.  
  
_Please – SH_  
  
Dammit. John let out a sigh that would take Sherlock three years to define as “defeated but somewhat overwhelmed by a focused feeling of affection thus being resigned in a positive way to the whole being defeated thing”. It would take him a further nine months to be a little more succinct.  
  
_You better be naked when I get home._  
  
_You assume I’m not already? – SH_  
  
And _that,_ dear friends _,_ was the end of John’s shopping trip.


	2. Day 2 - Gardening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock likes to grow things.

His name was Gerald.

When it came to gardening, Sherlock Holmes did not have the greenest of thumbs. But he did have a knack for cultivating other things. On an out-of-the-way side table in the living room of 221B was a flask with a moss garden growing inside it. He had found a perfectly round ball of the stuff growing at the base of a wall on the street. With a covetous eye, he’d prised it up and taken it home. Two years later, the flask had become a perfect little terrarium, keeping itself to itself as long as someone gave it a few drops of water every few months. That someone was almost always Mrs Hudson.

In the bathroom, in a dank little corner between the bathtub and the basin where the floor was never ever quite dry, there grew the occasional mushroom. Sherlock had a fascination with all things fungal and the delight he felt upon the mushroom’s first appearance was immense. Sherlock kept his filthy little corner of moistness hidden behind a small bin. A prodigious idea on his part, he thought. John would never look behind there.

But his pride and joy, the thing that never failed to make him smile, was Gerald. Gerald had arrived one day, unexpected and uninvited. John had made his feelings about Gerald quite clear. He didn’t want Gerald in the flat. He didn’t want Gerald near his food. Gerald had to go. There were standards they ought to adhere to, and making allowances for Gerald was not one of them.

Sherlock thought Gerald was one of the most beautiful things he’d ever seen. Perfectly round with a mirror-shiny surface, smooth as smooth could be, and the colour of burnished copper. Sure, Gerald was growing right atop John’s cream cheese but if he wanted it so much he should have eaten it before Gerald decided to colonise.

Against John’s wish for at least a small attempt at hygiene, Sherlock kept Gerald in the fridge for a fortnight. He grew from a small orange speck the size of a pinhead to a grand domed beauty, and Sherlock watched as smaller specks began to appear. Gerald’s children had arrived.

It was on a fateful Thursday, however, upon returning from a case when Sherlock found that tragedy had struck. He’d been laughing at something John had said as they entered the kitchen when he noticed an empty cream cheese tub on the recycling pile. His face fell as he made his deductions. He took the short few strides to the fridge, ripped the door open and peered desperately inside. But as hard as he stared, there was no Gerald.

Gerald was gone. He was no more. He was an ex-bacterial colony.

Three days later, Sherlock was still curled into a sullen ball of blue silk on the couch. Unwashed, unshaven, and unbelievably furious. But three days, John had discovered, was about as long as Sherlock’s little grumps could last before he needed sustenance.

Three days was also how long it took for a tub of cream cheese—cleverly left on a room temperature bench-top by a remorseful army doctor—to develop a scattered garden of tiny orange spots.

John dropped to his knees by the sofa. He leaned forward, kissing the tip of his nose to Sherlock’s ear. He refrained from voicing his first thought, _you need a wash_ , and set to work gently nuzzling and occasionally ducking away from the silk-clad arm trying to swat him away. He snaked his arm over Sherlock’s shoulder and wafted the cheese under his nose.

John had barely the time to blink before he found his outstretched hand empty and Sherlock slipping past him like a wisp of smoke, stomping noisily straight to his microscope before stopping short. He spun on his heel, stomped right back to John and stooped to press his lips to John’s temple.

‘I’ll call it Mervyn,’ he whispered.

 


	3. Day 3 - Gifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A gift is given.

With his experience as the kindest and wisest man Sherlock Holmes had ever known, John Watson knew well how to use his wiseness. He had long ago determined that if you want something, you better damn well be prepared to work at achieving it.

After weeks of Googling and calculating shipping times, John found exactly the gift he was looking for. It was beautiful. It was perfect. And it was on its way to Lestrade’s house because John was not an idiot, despite what Sherlock liked to say. He then deleted his history, his cookies, and browsed a few news sites to further cover his tracks. 

Six days later, while Sherlock was doing his best not to insult Molly in the morgue, John and Lestrade rendezvoused for a shifty handover. John filled Lestrade’s wastepaper basket with the packaging and he pocketed the wondrous item.

Two days later, and it was the big day. A sluggish grey-blue light skulked through the curtains, like jelly through a colander. An uncommon occurrence, certainly, but the analogy does the job. 

John rolled onto his back. He stretched his arms up and curled his toes. ‘Fuck!’ Two things happened in quick succession.  
One: John noticed how cold it was and he shoved his arms back beneath the duvet.  
Two: as he did this his calf cramped, making him gasp.

Beside him Sherlock rolled over blinking sleepily at him with a questioning ‘Hmm?’

John hissed, ‘Cramp.’

‘Would you like me to rub it better?’ Sherlock mumbled into the pillow, his face half smushed.

John turned his head, ‘It’s ok, it’s going away.’ The room was quiet and still. Their noses were almost touching, their breath morning-stale. They watched each other blink for a few minutes as they savoured the calm. The twilit in-between of the morning was a rare time they could just be. And so they beed.

Sherlock snuffled further into the pillow. John smiled. ‘I’ve got something.’

An eyebrow rose above one grey eye.

John shuffled up onto his elbow and rummaged under his pillow. ‘You ready?’ he asked over his shoulder.

‘Mmm.’

‘Close your eyes.’

Sherlock clicked his tongue but as with most things in bed, he obeyed John, trusting him implicitly. He felt John’s hand on his cheek, his palm warm but fingers cool. John’s thumb swiped soft and slow across Sherlock’s lips. He played and rolled and pulled until thumb and lips were slick.

John’s now warm thumb was replaced with a cold hardness. John repeated the movements he had been making, and then gently pressed at Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock opened his lips, taking the offering as John fed it in slowly. His eyes snapped open as his tongue registered familiar contours. He saw the slight tremor he had been feeling was John shaking with silent giggles.

John pulled it out with a wet pop and booped Sherlock on the nose with an exquisitely carved meerschaum penis. Sherlock raised himself on his elbow and took it, turning it over, inspecting each detail.

‘You know I don’t like you smoking but I don’t seem to be able to stop you, so,’ John scooted up to straddle Sherlock dragging the duvet over to keep the warmth in.

‘A cigarette holder.’

‘You like it?’ John leaned down and gave Sherlock an eggy morning kiss. ‘If I have to see you smoke, I’ll see you smoke with a cock in your mouth.’

Sherlock sat up. He dropped the cigarette holder onto the pillow and curled his arms around John. ‘I love it. I’ll use it.’

He met John’s lips with his. A gentle nip, a slide, a nibble.

‘Happy birthday, John.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the floaty POV. I tend to do that a lot. I hope it's not too confusing.


	4. Day 4 - Kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock figure out their kissing issues.

The thing is with Sherlock and John, and this may come as a surprise, they’re not very good at kissing. Not yet. And I don’t mean the mechanics. John’s got that down pat. And Sherlock, well he’s a quick study. But kissing each other, the whens, the wheres, the hows—that part hasn’t quite sorted itself out yet.

On Sherlock’s part, pretending is easy. He knows well how to pretend. He pretends to flirt to get his way, he pretends to be in a relationship to get into a building. Ah, yes, Janine. Now there was a thing. Sherlock knows how to pretend. You kiss your girlfriend when she leans her face toward you, her eyes hooded, glancing at lips. You kiss your girlfriend when she arrives. You kiss your girlfriend when she leaves. You pretend to enjoy that kiss. The whens, the wheres, the hows are all easy peasy when you’re pretending. It’s the realing he’s having trouble with.

He can’t pretend with John. Firstly, because he can’t. He just can’t. Not with this. With drugging John’s food, with faking his own death in front of John? Sure. Fine. Pretending is perfectly dandy. But the kissing? No, he can’t.  
And secondly, John really isn’t as stupid as he looks. Particularly since Sherlock has been looking at him more and more lately and noticed he looks less and less stupid with each passing day. That was a revelation. He made a note to look up research on facial/stupidity perception, dopamine, vasopressin, oxytocin and testosterone—because he was nothing if not a massive swot.

And John? Well, you’d think he’d take control of the situation. Thing is, it’s Sherlock. Inscrutable, unpredictable, yes-fine-I-use-product-in-my-hair-are-you-happy-now-John Sherlock. John’s learning, he is, he’s a clever man. But it’s taking some time. He watches for clues and cues. A barely perceptible slouch of the shoulders here, the tiniest squinch of an eye there. Still, he’s not quite sure how they’ll do this thing of being a _normal_ couple. He’s not quite sure if they can. Hell, he’s not quite sure if they want to. Fuck normal.

There are of course the other times. The times they can barely keep their hands off each other. The times when they’re each so hungry for each other the amount of lip licking, mouth panting, and crotch ogling is sufficient evidence that kissing is most likely appropriate at this point in time, please and thank you. 

One would have thought getting down with the sexy-times might have broken the kissing ice, so to speak. But given these two are idiots, and they _are_ idiots, they hadn’t quite managed to navigate the world of everyday kisses in amongst their not-so-sexy times. After all, Sherlock was Sherlock, and John, well, he finds it difficult, this sort of thing.

It should surprise no one that these two clowns decided to do something about this at the same time.

John spent his entire day at the clinic silently practicing a conversation about day-to-day intimacy, casual touching, affectionate display—public or otherwise. He tried to anticipate Sherlock’s reactions and questions. Unfortunately these came mainly down to embarrassed scoffing and, “have you lost your mind, John?”

Sherlock spent his day busily sketching and scribbling. He later moved on to his laptop where there was much typing, colour-coding, adding of columns. He filled a beautifully formatted spreadsheet with a matrix of events and body language against types of kisses. There were subsections to the kiss types but that would come later. There were also subsections to the events and the body language but that would also come later. Best not to overwhelm John with too much data in one go.  
He printed out his work and lay down on the sofa for a three and a half hour meditation session to while away the time until John came home.

John was still deciding on when would be the best time to bring up the topic as he was climbing the stairs of the flat. When he reached the threshold of their perpetually open door, he could see Sherlock’s lithe frame draped on the sofa, eyes closed and arms slack. A good sign he might actually be asleep.

John tiptoed closer, stopping to stare down at the detective’s sleep-softened features. His well rehearsed conversation had absolutely nothing to do with why he bent down to brush dark curls from pale brow. Bugger all to do with why he bent lower and placed a chaste and gentle kiss on said pale brow. It also had no say whatsoever in why, when pale green-grey-blue eyes fluttered open, he placed another kiss on pillowy, dry lips.

‘Will you be doing that every time you come home from work?’ Sherlock’s voice rasped with sleep.

John perched himself next to Sherlock on the sofa. ‘If,’ John hesitated, ‘you want me to.’

Sherlock sat up, hiding his spreadsheet behind him.

‘Yes.’ He leaned forward, tugging John toward him and pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

‘I could do it when I leave as well, if you want.’ John’s hand found Sherlock’s and brought it up for a kiss on each fingertip.

‘Yes.’ Sherlock kitten-licked at John’s mouth.

‘And, if you want me to, I could do it when…’

‘Yes.’ Sherlock kissed him again, a wet smack on the mouth. ‘Yes.’ And again, a damp buss on the temple. ‘Yes.’ And again, a nuzzle-kiss below John’s earlobe.

John twined their fingers together, his other hand rummaging through the curls at the back of Sherlock’s head.

‘So, basically, you’re ok with all of this? The whole, “honey, I’m home. Giss a kiss” thing? The whole “let’s hold hands and watch stupid telly” thing? The whole, “I’ve got no reason to kiss you other than I just want to kiss you right now” thing? You’re ok with that?’

Sherlock rolled his eyes. ‘Did I mumble, John? Yeeess,’ he dragged out as slowly and annoyingly as he could manage.

‘That was easy. I spent half the day rehearsing a whole discussion about this.’

Sherlock huffed through his nose to cover the crinkling of the spreadsheet as he shoved it between the sofa cushions with his free hand. ‘That’s ridiculous. There’s no need to overthink everything, John.’


	5. Day 5 - Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock works, in the loosest sense of the word "work".

‘No! Stop.’

‘Do we have a deal then, Mr. Holmes?’ the man, Benson, shook the black dossier he was holding over a barrel of sulphuric acid.

Sherlock stepped forward into the dim circle of light in the middle of the room. John took a reflexive step toward him but ran into the meaty palm of one of Benson’s goons. 

‘If you’d like to sit here, Mr. Holmes,’ Benson gestured to a small table, ‘and put those headphones on.’ Benson fiddled with a tablet for a moment then plugged the headphones in and handed it to Sherlock. ‘Watch that video closely. There’ll be a test afterwards.’ Benson grinned.

John could see Sherlock's face in the blue glow of the tablet screen. He saw him go through a series of frowns, dismayed lip curling, and bored eye-rolling. At one point, he tilted his head almost to horizontal. After a few minutes he pulled the headphones off and stood.

‘You can watch it again if you like,’ Benson threw his arms wide, ‘or, show us what you got, big guy.’

Sherlock chewed on his lip. He turned a sidelong glance at John and sighed. ‘And you’ll hand over the dossier? Just like that?’

‘I’m a man of my word, Mr. Holmes. I’ve no interest in government documents.’ Benson gestured to the centre of the room where a dancing pole stood.

Sherlock straightened, and with another not-quite look at John, he strode to the pole and waited.

Benson gave a flick-fingered wave to some unseen lackey. After a few seconds a gentle beat started up and then a voice sang - _Work, work, work, work, work, work. He say me have to. Work, work, work, work, work, work_.

The song sounded vaguely familiar to John. Like something he’d heard blasting out of a clothing store at some point. But any thought about the music soon took a back seat when he realized that Sherlock was moving. To the music. With the pole. And the music. Sherlock. Holmes. _Dirt, dirt, dirt, dirt, dirt, dirt. So me put in. Work, work, work, work, work, work_.

First there came the denial. One of the lackeys near him was stifling his laughter and that made John give his own incredulous laugh. This could not be happening. Yet there it was, right in front of him. He could feel himself going, about to succumb to a giggling fit when _it_ happened. 

Sherlock—one leg hooked around the pole, trousers taut against muscular thigh—flung himself into a back bend and then, in a gentle wave, rolled back up sliding both hands up the pole.

The giggle in John’s throat looked around in panic and fled the premises. A new player was in town, and that was a low growl John didn’t realize he was making until he swallowed the sudden rush of saliva in his mouth and stopped growling. He shuffled his feet and gave a quick look around to see if anyone had noticed.  
No one had noticed.

Sherlock was now gyrating his hips against the pole. Slowly humping against it to the rhythm of the music.

John shook his head. The muscles in his jaw that kept his mouth closed had gone on holiday, presumably to the same safe haven John’s giggle had fled to earlier. Things were happening within the confines of his trousers that he had categorically not given the go ahead for.

Sherlock was now running his entire body up and down and around the pole while at the same time ensuring his magnificently rounded arse was rotating to the beat. John couldn’t quite figure out how Sherlock was managing to circumnavigate the pole while keeping his arse front and centre at all times. But frankly, John was enjoying the magic show and couldn’t give a flying fig how it was done. 

The happenings in his trousers, meanwhile, were having a grand old time. John grabbed at the fabric and adjusted himself. The happenings were excited for a moment when they felt the push of John’s hand but declared him a party pooper when he took it away. 

Now Sherlock was undulating, his back to the pole. He slid down it, pulled his legs wide, closed, wide, closed, and then slid his arse into the air, his head down. _Work, work, work, work, work, work. When you all gon' learn, learn, learn, learn, learn_.

John began to consider which way was the best to fall when he inevitably fainted.

The song ended with Sherlock, facing Benson, arms over his head and grasping the pole.

Benson shook his head. For a moment, Sherlock looked dismayed but when Benson began a slow clap, which rose into an enthusiastic applause, Sherlock gave a small nod of thanks.

‘That was amazing. Brilliant in fact. Can’t wait to show everyone.’

‘Show?’ Sherlock snapped.

‘You didn’t think I’d let that happen without filming did you?’ Benson snapped his fingers then spun on his heel engrossed by his phone. One of his meatheads darted from the shadows, handed Sherlock the black dossier and disappeared back into the gloom.

Clearly dismissed, Sherlock walked to John and gestured at the door. It took a few seconds for John to pause the replay in his head and his eyes to focus. He gave the lackey next to him a brief nod and tumbled outside after Sherlock.

‘We need to check every file in here against the database Mycroft sent. Clearly these idiots had no idea what they were in possession of. There are at least four active cases that rely on this information and who knows how many others.’ Sherlock strode toward the main road, his mouth flapping just as quickly lest the silence pose questions.

Unfortunately for him, John Watson learned long ago there was no point waiting for silence. 

‘You’ve got the night off.’

‘But…’ 

John whipped his hand out grabbing Sherlock’s shirt and yanking them chest to chest. Three things became very evident right there and then. One, Sherlock became very _very_ aware of the happenings in John’s trousers. Two, John became aware that the happenings in _his_ trousers were sparking happenings in Sherlock’s trousers. And three, Sherlock realized they very much needed to be home right the fuck now.

‘You’ve got. The night. Off,’ John said through clenched teeth.

The garbled noise Sherlock managed to emit was taken by John as assent. John let him go and began walking down toward the main road to look for a cab. Sherlock was compelled to admire the pace John had set, especially in his state, before he started after his compact Captain at a run.


	6. Day 6 - Hair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something happens to John's hair. Sherlock is interested.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will actually do a proper ending and stop teasing one of these days. Really I will.

It was unnerving to say the least, the stare. Still, John had enough experience to know when it was best to just let Sherlock sit quiet and take in new data. But when John himself was the source of the data he had to allow for a certain level of scrutiny. All he could do was make himself comfortable and settle in for an unspecified amount of time. 

As John made himself a tea Sherlock kept his distance, weaving to and fro, observing from all angles. They’d both been so busy the last month John hadn’t had a chance for a trim. His hair had become what could generously be described as floppy. It hadn’t been this long since his twenties and it was just as annoying now as it had been then. And after a late shower last night he’d woken up this morning to a frightful nest atop his head. 

He was fortunate to live with a man who kept a supply of pomades and other tinctures on hand for the very purpose of taming unruly locks. He slicked the whole lot back but not before trying all manner of liberty spikes and devil horns.

Now he settled into his chair with his tea. Sherlock sat in his chair opposite, elbows on knees, steepled hands to lips, watching. John sat back and crossed his legs. He couldn’t help but think Sherlock would make an excellent gargoyle. He took a sip of tea and dared to make eye contact. 

Mistake. 

Sherlock went from sitting to standing so quickly John barely registered there’d been movement. Sherlock took the one stride to stand in front of John’s chair and gently took his mug away, settling it on the small side-table. He bent low, hands on either armrest, and took a deep sniff burying his nose right in John’s hair.

‘Nmm.’ John crouched a little. ‘You know I hate that.’

‘Hate what?’ Sherlock sniffed again, long and loud.

‘Nnyya.’

‘You’ve been at my things, John. You know I hate tha-AH-at OW!’ Sherlock did not yelp as he shoved John’s hand away from his nipple. At least that’s what he wants you to think… he very definitely yelped.

‘Do not think I won’t cripple your nipples if you keep sniffing at me.’ John made pinchy-claw hands at Sherlock. A well known display of masculine aggression.

Sherlock crouched down, his legs wide. One hand on John’s thigh, the fingers of the other toying much too much with his lips. ‘John,’ he said. Just like that.

‘Sherlock?’ John swallowed. This looked like it might turn out better than the time he’d tried a goatee. There were dents in the sofa cushions that had never recovered from the magnitude and duration of that sulk.

‘John,’ he said again. Lower, deeper, faster, stronger. His hand moved higher up John’s thigh. Declaring that hand a coward, the other abandoned Sherlock’s lips and landed with a delicate flutter on John’s crotch.

‘Hoo, ok. Yep. Yes.’ John shuffled around.

‘It’s a very expensive product, John. Custom made.’ Sherlock’s braver hand gave a small squeeze of John’s soft, not-quite-soft flesh. 

‘Jee-hee-heesus on a unicycle, Sherlock,’ he stopped himself short. A blush rose in a wave from John’s neck. ‘Forget I said that.’

Deft fingers unzipped John’s fly and delved into warmth beneath. ‘I’ll be needing recompense for the pomade, John. After that, we’ll discuss terms for deletion of the unicycle line.’


	7. Day 7 - Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Music is the food of love, or something.

A clarinet played soft and sad. It curled through the air, sluggish, twining around hearts and brushing at tear ducts. A bassoon and a contrabassoon joined in, and together they played the melancholy song of their kind.

Sherlock, only slightly tipsy and emotional after dinner, stole a glance at John. He sat with head tilted, leaning on his hand, eyes to the orchestra. Unbidden memories of the hurt Sherlock had caused the precious man beside him threatened to reach a spilling point as tears brimmed. He turned back to the stage and glared at the clarinetist.

When the music reached its lowest point, a bright piccolo piped in who shoved the bassoons aside and lit up the darkness of the clarinet's voice.   
They were joined by a sweet duo of flutes and together they flittered through the concert hall like iridescent butterflies. 

Sherlock’s blood hummed. The dark memories were replaced by his very own conductor of light. The sound of John’s breathless giggle after their first run through London. The first time John’s lips touched his. The special pigeon-inspired dance John did when he cooked and drank. 

John’s head sat a little heavier on his hand, his eyes were closed. A smile, sure and true, crept over Sherlock’s face. The tears that had threatened before were now silvery beads of joy. 

The strings and brass joined in as the music rose to the highest reaches. The lusher sounds of the symphony grew, accentuated by the horns. The air thrummed with the tympani.

Sherlock could feel the pulse in his neck beating hard as his breath quickened with the music. His thoughts became fevered. He and John after a near-miss, all teeth and spit and dry hands in a Scotland Yard meeting room. He and John, all muffled giggles and busy tongues, under Mycroft’s dining table one particularly dull soiree. He and John, skin to skin, rocking together and whispering their love. Damp and hot and breathing each other’s air so they knew, in that moment, they were sharing everything.

The music was reaching its climax. The themes repeated, faster and louder as did Sherlock’s thoughts.

John brushing a cool medical hand over Sherlock’s fever-hot brow. John shielding him from reporters. John reading in his chair. John smiling. John coming. John. John. John.

As the cymbals crashed, John’s elbow slipped from the armrest and he jolted upright. He blinked at the glow from the stage and swallowed away the staleness in his mouth. He looked over to see if Sherlock had noticed only to see his lunatic love gazing back at him with glistening tears and a thousand league smile. Bemused, John shook his head, a silent _‘what’ve I missed?’_.

Applause erupted around them but these two singular parts of a perfectly imperfect whole were cocooned in each other’s glow. And in that bubble, the music played on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I appear to have spilt a jar of syrupy sugared goo.
> 
> Clean up on aisle 7.


	8. Day 8 - Cuddles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is horrified at the idea of domesticity. Sherlock needs a cuddle.

The first time they went to bed together—no not like that—was in a motel room in Hull. It was there that Sherlock observed and downloaded the many differences between tumbling into bed in a knot of lusty limbs, and going to bed together for the sole purpose of sleeping.

They had shared a bed before, certainly. Before they became naked shenanigan buddies. But back then it was all fine. Just two guys, sharing a bed in their jammies, no big deal. Just best friend stuff. It became a whole other matter to do it knowing what the other’s cock tasted like after a strenuous criminal chase.  
So there Sherlock stood, half in the hideous mint-green room half in the tiny en-suite, scratching the back of his neck and narrow-eyeing John.

John, propped up on one side of the bed, cleared his throat and turned the page of his book.

Sherlock ran his thumbnail back and forth across his bottom lip. He took a small step into the room, retreated back into the doorway, and then padded the few steps to the empty side of the bed.

John glanced up from his book, gave Sherlock a quick smile and went back to reading. 

Sherlock curled and unfurled his fingers a few times before reaching to turn back the flowery duvet. He straightened again in order to stare for a bit at the empty space next to John. Contemplating that he was indeed the one who would be filling that space from now on.

John sighed and put his open book down on his lap. ‘Okay,’ he rolled his eyes to the ceiling. ‘What are you doing?’

Sherlock gestured, open palmed with both hands at the bed and then again at John.

John shrugged.

‘This, John. This!’ he waved a hand back and forth between them. ‘It’s all so…’ Sherlock pressed his lips together, searching for the word.

‘Green?’

‘No.’

‘Moth ball scented?’

‘John.’

John snapped his fingers, ‘Got it,’ he beamed. ‘It’s Hullish.’ He decided his wonderful pun was well worth the withering glare he received from Sherlock.

‘Domestic, John. It’s all a bit… with you and the reading. And I’ve brushed my teeth. And there’s a lamp on.’

‘Shall I call for the manager?’

‘It’s just so…’

‘Domestic, yeah, you said.’ John pushed back the duvet and scrambled to stand on the bed, looming over his lanky love. He took Sherlock’s face in his hands, stooped to drop a gentle peck on his lips, and, looking him directly in the eye asked, ‘The fuck are you talking about?’

Sherlock gave an exasperated, ‘Ngyah.’ Scrunching his eyes closed.

‘Use your words.’ 

He opened his eyes to see the twin blue lakes of calm that were John’s eyes staring right back. ‘I don’t know how to do it, John.’

‘What?’

‘This. Normalcy. How the hell do people do this?’

John sighed the sigh of a man who would not be finishing the chapter he had started any time soon. ‘Okay, come on.’ He stepped down off the bed, pulled the covers all the way back and gave Sherlock an encouraging shove. He climbed back over to his side, and, once they were both in, pulled the duvet back over both of them. ‘Would it help if I just stopped reading and turned the light off?’

‘Couldn’t we just, you know,’ Sherlock ran his eyes pointedly up and down John’s body, ‘and then sleep.’

‘I’m knackered, Sherlock. So are you.’

‘I’ve seen my own erect penis disappearing past your anal sphincter, John. I’ve seen you draw a heart on my chest using our mixed ejaculate. How am I supposed to lie here and not think about that?’

A red hot flush ran up the sides of John’s neck and slapped him in the face. ‘Wow. Love it when you talk dirty. Listen. You’ve just got to break the conditioning. We don’t have to have sex every time we get into bed.’

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply.

‘No.’ John stopped him. ‘Look, let’s ease you into it, yeah? I won’t read. We’ll just cuddle for a bit.’

‘Cuddle?’

‘Yeah, it’s where two people sort of wrap their arms…’

‘There’s no need to patronize me.’

‘I beg to differ.’ John thumped his pillow into shape and then wriggled down into the covers. He patted Sherlock’s pillow. ‘Come on, boy. Here you go. Nice pillow. Down you get.’

‘Fuck off.’

John put a hand to his heart in mock outrage. ‘Sherlock Holmes. What a foul mouth you have.’

‘All the better to… erm…’ Sherlock frowned. ‘No. No, I’ve got nothing.’

‘Come on, lie down.’

Sherlock wriggled down, his cold feet finding cold sheets. He turned on his side to face John. ‘Which way?’

‘Um,’ John rubbed at his eyes, ‘which way do you want?’

Sherlock thought a moment. ‘This way. No,’ he turned over, his back to John. ‘This way.’

John switched the lamp off and rolled back to fold Sherlock in his arms.

Sherlock lifted John’s arm off and rolled back over to face him. ‘No, this way.’

‘Okay.’ John wiggled closer and tightened his hold. 

Sherlock sighed and wrapped his own arms around John, awkwardly digging one arm in beneath him. They were still for a small while, listening to each other’s breathing. 

‘It’s still weird,’ Sherlock mumbled.

‘Just let it go, Sherlock. Go to sleep.’ John rubbed his arm along Sherlock’s side.

Sherlock shuffled his hips. He stretched one leg and then the other. ‘I can’t feel my arm, John.’

John sighed the sigh of a man who would not be getting as much sleep as he wanted that night.


	9. Day 9 - Flower Crowns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beware of children bearing gifts.

Sherlock and his nemesis stared each other down. Both sat cross-legged, their hands steepled beneath chins, eyes glinting.

‘You’re my prisoner. You have to do what I say.’

‘And what if I refuse?’ Sherlock’s voice was level. No hint of fear.

‘You _have_ to do what I say. That’s the rule.’

Sherlock scoffed. ‘Is that all you’ve got? One rule?’ he shook his head. ‘Pathetic.’

His nemesis stood and stamped a pink-sandaled foot. ‘Is not.’ She chewed on a tiny finger. ‘What’s pafetic?’

‘It means pitiful and inadequate.’

The little girl was too busy weaving with her nimble little fingers to listen. ‘Here,’ she placed a crown of pansies on Sherlock’s head. ‘You have to wear this.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s a pirate helmet. We have to find the treasure on celery island and then blow it up.’

‘The treasure?’

‘The island. Celery is yucky.’

Sherlock smiled. ‘That’s true. It _is_ yucky.’

‘Sherlock?’ John’s voice called out across the B&Q garden department.

‘Is that your boss?’ the little girl asked, standing on tiptoes.

Sherlock gave her a noncommittal shrug. ‘In a manner of speaking.’

‘There you are.’ John looked down at the little girl. ‘Hello.’

Suddenly shy, the girl scowled at the intruder before running off into the fruit tree section.

‘Making friends I see. What’s with the flowers?’ his hands full, he thrust his chin at Sherlock’s flower crown.

‘It’s a pirate helmet, John. Clearly.’

‘What the hell’s a pirate helmet?’

Sherlock pointed at his crown.

‘Very pretty. Brings out your eyes, my pirate princeling.’ John held up the pot he was carrying. ‘What d’you think? Does this scream Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen or what?’

Sherlock oofed as he unfolded himself and stood—a sound he categorically denied making. ‘It’s not screaming anything, John. It’s a plant.’

John sighed.

‘Three hundred and seventy-nine,’ Sherlock mumbled under his breath.

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

John narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips but no further clue was forthcoming. He sighed again, walking off toward the checkout. ‘Alright, let’s get out of here.’

Sherlock smirked. ‘Three hundred and eighty.’

As they stood in the queue—Sherlock engrossed in his phone, John rocking from foot to foot—Sherlock’s little friend skipped up and thrust a garland at John. He took it with a tentative hand. ‘Um, thanks?’

‘It’s a ninja helmet,’ she beamed.

‘A ninja helmet?’ John held the flower crown out for inspection. ‘Not a pirate helmet?’ He asked, his head tilted. 

‘No. That’s silly. You’re not a pirate.’

‘I’m a ninja though?’

‘Ninjas are the bosses of pirates.’ She nodded solemnly and then skipped away.

‘Are they indeed?’ He cleared his throat and raised his brow at Sherlock.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and went back to his phone.

‘Excuse me, gentlemen. May I ask where you got those flowers?’ One of the shop workers tapped John on the shoulder.

‘Er, we didn’t… We just…’

‘You’ll need to pay for the plants you vandalized.’

‘I swear,’ John looked around, ‘there was this little girl…’

A quiet giggle came from the vicinity of the rose bushes, followed by the low rumble of Sherlock’s laughter.

The shop worker gave him a disappointed shake of the head and ushered them toward the service desk.


	10. Day 10 - Balloons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Balloons. Well, _a_ balloon. Well, _technically_ a balloon.  
>  Sherlock ought not to be left alone to place things in places those things ought not to be placed.

'Hey, Sherlock.' John tossed his wallet and keys onto the kitchen table, flicked the kettle on and sought out a couple of adequately washed mugs. 'Deduce what's been on my mind all day,' he peered into the dim living room and waggled his eyebrows.

Sherlock stood in the middle of the room. He appeared to be focused on a point somewhere behind John.

John licked his lips. 'No, seriously. Guess.'

Sherlock blink blink blinked. 'John,' he whispered.

'I'll give you a clue.' John plopped two teabags into the mugs. 'It's behind you and it rhymes with “door farce”.'

Sherlock pressed his lips together and squeezed his eyes shut. 'John!' He said a little louder.

John sauntered into the room. 'Yeah?'

'I need your help,' Sherlock said through gritted teeth, his back ramrod straight.

Here's the thing about John Watson, Doctor. He can go from not-so-subtle horny mode to Watson MD in less than 3 seconds. In that way, he's faster than most luxury sports cars. So when Sherlock said he needed help, John was there in a hop-sprint, running his hands all over him in a determined but not entirely helpful way. On second thought, he was likely still mostly horny.

'What's wrong? Are you ok?'

Sherlock took a deep breath through his nose and let it out in a steady stream. 'There's been a, an incident. I've... I may have...' Sherlock's mouth dropped into what John called the moue of irresistibility. 

'Wha...'

'Promise you won’t yell,' Sherlock yelled, cutting him off.

'Jesus, Sherlock, I won't yell. Just _tell_ me.'

Sherlock raised as proud a chin as he could muster and rotated gingerly on the spot.

For a moment there was silence. And then, 'WHAT THE _ACTUAL_ FUCKING FUCK, SHERLOCK? WHAT THE _HELL_ WERE YOU DOING?'

'You promised you wouldn't yell,' Sherlock said over his shoulder.

'Yeah, well, I didn't think I'd be seeing _this_.' John’s voice rose to a distressed squeak.

 _This_ was the base of a small table lamp sticking out above the elastic of Sherlock's pyjama bottoms.

John knelt down to inspect it. He prodded lightly and pulled Sherlock's cheeks apart. 

'Jesus, Sherlock,' John sighed. 'A whole globe?' He shook his head. 'Why?'

Sherlock’s face flushed redder than a rose. His eyes were suddenly interested in anything other than John, and with the reluctance of a small child forced to eat its greens he said, 'I wanted to know if I could see my blood vessels if I switched it on.'

'YOU PLUGGED IT IN?'

'You said you wouldn't yell.'

John abandoned his station and stood, clap-wiping his hands. 'Right, that's it. One,’ he held a finger up an inch from Sherlock’s nose, a picture of fury, ‘You’re an idiot.’

‘Yes. Yes, I am.’ Sherlock had the decency to look ashamed and markedly ungenius-like.

‘And two,’ another of John’s fingers joined the first, ‘We're going to hospital.'

'What? No. _You_ get it out. Surely you've seen worse than this. Please, John, not the hospital. God, no. Just get it out with one of those inflatable endoscope things like they did on that show.'

'Sherlock, TV is not real life. It could break. You’d be lacerated from the inside. It could be dangerous.’

'And that's why _you_ should do it. John, please.'

After an intense battle of wills—which came down to who was best at glaring and who was best at pouting pitifully—John helped Sherlock lie on his side on the sofa and buggered off to the clinic to borrow some equipment.  
On his return, Sherlock was softly humming Danse Macabre.

John prepared the endoscope, the balloon dilator, and Sherlock with plenty of encouragement and plenty of lube. As he was about to push in, he placed a gloved hand on Sherlock’s hip. 

‘Are we really doing this? A and E sees plenty of this sort of thing. More than I ever have.’

‘You’re a wonderful doctor, John. Fine hands. Excellent reflexes. I trust you implicitly. Just get the damn thing out. Please.’

With another patented sigh John maneuvered the camera around the lamp to the base of the globe. He then threaded the balloon through until he was almost certain the inflatable collar was beyond the dome of the globe.

‘Looks good so far. How are you feeling?’

Sherlock gave a highly suspicious moan.

‘Tell me you’re not enjoying this.’

Half a minute passed. ‘Sherlock?’

Sherlock cleared his throat. ‘I’m not enjoying this.’

John shook his head, not entirely surprised at Sherlock’s capacity to make the most of the situation. ‘Ok, I’ve inflated the balloon. I’m going to pull the lamp and the balloon catheter at the same time. If you feel any pain, you need to tell me immediately.’

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
What followed was a mixture of relief and unpleasantness. Because no matter what the situation, human bodies are human bodies. And for this tale of the dangers of curiosity, we need not go into horrid detail. Instead, we can skip ahead, as is the prerogative of fiction, to more pleasant times.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock lay prone on their bed with nothing on but his threadbare dust coloured t-shirt. John sat cross-legged by his side, taking his time rubbing cortisone cream on the pinker parts of Sherlock’s bounteous behind. Sherlock hummed softly to himself and allowed his body to roll with John’s kneading. 

‘John.’

‘Mm.’

‘I’m sorry you were thinking of my arse all day.’

‘And yet this evening was still all about your arse.’

Sherlock rolled himself to kneeling, a slight grimace as he moved washed across his face. He crawled closer to John, and, on hands and knees, he nuzzled at John’s neck. ‘I really am sorry.’

‘It’s fine.’ John closed his eyes, his hands on his thighs.

Sherlock kissed, feather-light, along John’s jaw, his chin and back down to his collar bone. ‘Really, truly sorry.’

John sighed, almost very nearly not angrily.

Sherlock crept up to straddle John’s lap. He tucked his icy fingers under John’s shirt, warming them on his chest. ‘Quite quite sorry.’ He pushed at John, who unknotted his legs and acquiesced to lie down. ‘Unbelievably remorseful.’

John stretched his arms above his head, trying hard now not to break his stony silence with a laugh and a smile. This was almost ruined when Sherlock buried his head beneath John’s t-shirt and proceeded to ensure everything tasted just right. A light lapping with a kitten-soft tongue over and around one nipple had John’s muscles revolting in a delighted squirm. A dip-dip-swirl in his belly button had him clutching at the sheets with glee.

Sherlock emerged with a head of static-floofed hair, charged strands floating on a draught and catching the hintiest hint of auburn light. His eyes shone with wicked mischief as he gripped the waistbands of John’s pyjama bottoms and pants in both hands and waited.

John propped himself up on his elbows, his face still heroically impassive.

Rewarded with an audience, Sherlock gave John a grin and yanked down only to lose his grip around John’s knees and lose his balance.

There was no maintaining the façade after that. John laughed and settled into giggles as Sherlock righted himself and tugged everything off completely.

Sherlock pointed at John’s pretty pink cock standing at half mast, ‘He still looks angry.’

‘Oh, he’s furious,’ said John. ‘I mean, I’m all for forgiving you, but you’re going to have to convince _him_.

Sherlock gave a determined nod. ‘Don’t you worry about a thing, John. I’m on it.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I _almost_ got to the smut. We’ll get there. It’s cumulative.  
>  This chapter is inspired by a wonderfully silly conversation with [221b_hound](http://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound), Scrubs and various true stories I've been (sometimes involuntarily) privy to. 
> 
> DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME!


	11. Day 11 - Cooking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A cheeky little quickie in the kitchen.

Sherlock grunted.

‘Harder.’

‘John, I…’

‘Harder, Sherlock. I need you to get deep inside.’

‘But…’

‘Come on, don’t be shy. You’re not going to break anything.’

‘John, really, I can’t.’

‘You can. You’re doing really well. Here, let me help.’

‘No! John, don't, it’s… oooh god.’

‘Ah, shit. No, no, it’s fine. It’s all fine, Sherlock.’

‘It’s gone everywhere, John.’

‘We’ll clean it up. Don’t worry. I’m not angry.’

‘I squeezed too hard.’

‘No. It was my fault. I kept pushing you. I should’ve trusted you’d be able to feel your way.’

‘Shall I get another curd going and clean out the piping bag?’

‘Yeah, go on. There’s plenty of lemons left. I think we can salvage the sponge.’


	12. Day 12 - AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is a barber/hairdresser working next door to John's clothing store. They each have a new employee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is unashamedly an attempt to amuse Atlin Merrick and 221b_hound by shoehorning this [Barber](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mdZSt1kkLrQ) and this [Shop assistant](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AcDKeos5puI) into a terrible AU. You're welcome!

‘Listen, I’m off on break. If a Mrs Lo comes in, she’s here to pick up that silk skirt I put away for her. Any problems, I’ll be next door.’

John took a last squint at the new guy before heading to Sherlock’s Salon next door. He was over by casual wear, possibly talking to himself again. John wondered, not for the first time, whether it was wise to leave him on his own.

The salon was a sleek, more modern than post-modern affair. All black marble in asymmetric shapes and chrome fixtures, mixed with vintage leather chairs and a hair wash station where the water was pumped by hand. It was the classic hipster-meets-overambitious-interior-designer look. 

Sherlock’s was unusually quiet for midday on a Saturday, with just one client being lathered up by someone John didn’t recognize while Sherlock looked on.

John sidled up to Sherlock and handed him half a baguette he’d snaffled from Pret that morning. He was rewarded with a small grunt of thanks.

‘Who’s the new guy?’ John whispered.

‘Dougie,’ Sherlock whispered back out the side of his mouth. ‘He’s on a…’

Dougie twitched suddenly, just as he pulled the shaving brush away from the clients face.

‘…trial run.’

‘There you are. All lathered up,’ Dougie gave the client a small pat on the shoulder. He placed the shaving brush on his trolley and picked up the razor.  
With a hopeful light in his bespectacled eyes, he looked to Sherlock who gave him an encouraging nod. Dougie smiled back just as another twitch hit, his arm sawing the razor back and forth.

John clutched onto Sherlock’s arm with both hands. ‘Sherlock,’ he hissed. ‘Do something.’

Dougie tilted the client’s head back and started on the first down stroke.

‘It’s fine, John.’ Sherlock whispered back. ‘Dougie comes highly recommended.’

John watched on in helpless terror, nails digging into Sherlock’s arm, eyes blown wide.

Dougie moved on to the left side and began again. A small twitch passed over his thin face.

John gasped.

Once done with the face and upper lip, Dougie moved on to the client’s neck.

John turned and buried his face in Sherlock’s shoulder, only emerging when he heard, ‘All done, sir. Clean as a whistle.’

Dougie wiped the excess foam from the clients face. Sherlock ran his fingers along the man’s jaw. ‘Excellent work. Very smooth. I think I can safely say, welcome aboard Dougie.’ He held his hand out.

‘Really?’ Dougie’s face lit up with a grin. He swapped the razor to his left and took Sherlock’s hand. ‘Thank you so much, that’s amazing news.’ Another twitch and the razor slashed inches from Sherlock’s face.

John gave a small scream.

‘Why don’t you finish up with Mr Jeffers here and we’ll get you started on the paperwork,’ Sherlock said, giving him a pat on the back. ‘You look pale, John. Are you alright?’

‘I…’ John looked around, unsure if he was indeed alright. ‘I’d better get back.’

‘Of course.’ Sherlock nodded. ‘How’s your new recruit?’

John shook himself. ‘A bit weird actually. Talks to himself. I walked past him a while ago and I swear he was reciting X-Men and making explosion noises.’

‘I’d keep an eye on that one, John. Sounds dangerous.’

John glanced at Dougie. ‘I’m not sure we have the same definition of dangerous, Sherlock.'


	13. Day 13 - Animals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beware the dulcet tones of David Attenborough.

It’s often on a Sunday that John is able to entice Sherlock to sit. Really, just sit. Sunday’s—weekends really—mean nothing to a consulting detective, but they do mean something to a part-time general practitioner. And so Sherlock, perpetually fascinated with his John, partakes (sometimes happily) in the small little rituals that make up a typical Sunday. And on this typical Sunday, John raised Sherlock’s legs off the sofa, like a pair of cotton encased boom gates, sat himself down with a fresh cup of coffee, and lowered Sherlock’s legs onto his lap. He switched on the TV and, after a series of irritated noises from Sherlock, ended his channel hopping on a nature documentary.

_…but a man releases around 300 million sperm in each ejaculation…_

Sherlock let out an interested little hum and jerked his head up to check what he’d just heard. He found John smirking at him before turning back to the telly sipping his coffee. John chuckled and set to absent-mindedly rubbing his hand up and down Sherlock’s leg.

_…the two male leopard seals, however, have a far gentler interaction. They are tactile creatures. Always nuzzling and nibbling each other…_

Another hum rumbled from deep within Sherlock’s chest. Quite, quite deep. Deep enough to be a moan. Perhaps a groan. Maybe even a growl. He drew back his leg, his foot brushing along down John’s soft belly to the soft flesh below, and set his flexible toes to work. 

John grabbed at Sherlock’s foot, stilling it. He bent forward to place his mug on the table and then sat back, his eyes locked to Sherlock’s as he helped his lover's foot resume its work.

_...the ventilation rate of the smaller octopus increased suggesting heightened arousal…_

One, two, three slow breaths, eyes filled with fire, and a sudden flurry of limbs had lips crashing and teeth clacking. John enveloping Sherlock, clasped close by long legs. Hardening hot cock rutting against another.

_…in behavior known as diddling, the savannah baboon entrusts his penis to the hands of another male…_

There was no time for words. Not when buttons needed tearing, trousers needed tugging, and necks needed biting. Now. Right, right, quickly, now. Desperate hips clashed until they found a rhythm to grind and slap to. The only time left was for low growls, pleasured huffs and decadent moans.

_…possessed by hormones, both partners will take turns mounting and being mounted…_

With fever-hot skin pressed close, hands grasping tight on John’s arse, nails biting into soft flesh, Sherlock’s muscles clenched. Pleasure rippled and drew in like a vortex as he came. Hips pumping with each wave as he howled into John’s shoulder.

_…the partner will stimulate the genital slit with their rostrum…_

What little energy Sherlock had left he used to roll them over, tipping them onto the floor with a thud, John landing on his back. “Ow” and “sorry” were the first and only words spoken before Sherlock wiggled his way down, down, arse held high. His mouth, hot and wet, took in a writhing John deep and fast until he too, with an arched back and a silent cry to the ceiling, came in four heated spurts.

_…these pairs will often mate for life…_

Sticky, sweaty, and with slowing breaths they slotted into each other’s arms and settled in for an uncomfortable Sunday afternoon nap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *drops some terribly rushed smut and runs away blushing*


	14. Day 14 - Comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where the boys find comfort.

** John's comforts **

**A good book**

**Small firearms**

**Jumpers and cardigans (obviously)**

**A good scotch**

**Listening to your violin**

**Mash and gravy, no lumps**

**Rain on windows**

 

"Is that it?"

"Yeah."

"Hm."

"What do you mean, hm? What's wrong with it?"

"Nothing, John. Nothing's wrong with it. This is _your_ idiotic exercise. I'm sure you're doing it correctly."

"OK, fine. Good. Let's see yours then. Hand it over."

"No."

"Give it."

"No. I don't think so."

"Sherlock. Give it here."

"No. No, John, ow. My arm doesn't bend that way."

 

** Sherlock's comforts **

**John calling me brilliant**

**John's gun**

**John's jumpers**

**The thing John makes with the peas**

**John punching people for making fun of me**

**John believing in me even when I repeatedly tell him not to**

**John lying on top of me like a giant labrador**

**John's face**

**John's hugs**

**John**

 

"Go on then. Say it. Get it over with."

"..."

"John?"

"..."

"Why are your eyes wet?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This would have been longer if I hadn't become distracted by Domhnall Gleeson pretending to be Bob Geldof. Absolutely his fault. Man's like a damn virus.


	15. Day 15 - Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Falling is just like flying... sometimes.

There are many ways to fall and not all of them involve the concept of gravity. That's gravity as in F=G(m1m2/r2), by the way, not gravity as in "Mr Chuddlethwaite, I don't believe you understand the gravity of the situation." Though not all of them involve that sort of gravity either. 

John Watson first fell when the man at the door handed him his cane. When the psychopath he’d been warned off gave him the warmest smile a stranger had ever given him.

Sherlock Holmes started falling the moment John uttered a breathless ‘God, yes’ to the promise of seeing more injuries and violent deaths.

Both of them had stumbled a few times in the short hours since they met but when they fell, they fell like a sack of potatoes off the back of a lorry. And ever since then, they kept right on falling.

Like the time Sherlock cooked for John. Really cooked. Cooked as in actually followed another human's recipe.  
The day after a media flurry on the dangers of walrus flu and everyone with a runny nose or itchy teeth claimed they were close to death. John stamped up the stairs, equal parts exhausted and pissed off, only to be spun off into the kitchen by Sherlock.  
A dozen invectives were about to be released before John found a spoon full of vegetable soup in his mouth. Sherlock had made three courses, none of which required chewing. John fell again. It wasn't the food. It was when Sherlock's face switched from concern to relief that John hadn't spat anything out.

Sherlock rarely anticipated any of his falls. And it was mainly John's ability to surprise him that kept him falling. His favourite was the time John ordered Mycroft to leave after a particularly obnoxious visit and then slapped his brother's arse on the way out. All sorts of happy fizzy feelings ran through Sherlock who then convinced John to spend the rest of the night slapping him on the arse.

John's favourite fall was the time Sherlock chased a client down the street. Not an altogether unusual occurrence but it wasn't often that it happened sans sheet. As John watched Sherlock's pale bottom bounce off into the distance, a thrill ran through every cell when he thought about growing old with his idiotic genius.

And they just kept on falling until their last breaths. Not one in a million couples could boast that. Quite sickening really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even know what's happening any more. I keep panicking. Must calm down.
> 
> Edit: No panic. No more panic. Panic pummelled into submission...   
> Panic not pummelled. Winklepicker not violent. But panic bally well given a very stern talking to.


	16. Day 16 - Hidden Talent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now you see it, now you don't.

‘What?’

John jerked awake on the sofa, flapping at the newspaper he’d been dribbling on.

‘No!’ Sherlock’s voice resounded through the flat.

John sighed. It sounded like Sherlock was preparing for battle, with a series of crashes and thuds announcing he was getting closer.

‘No. What?! No, no, no.’ Sherlock stormed into the living room and slapped a dog-eared paperback onto John’s chest.

John twisted his way up to sitting and squinty-blinked at the book. _Ah, shit._

Sherlock began pacing. One, two, three, up, one, two, three, down. He flicked a hand at John. ‘Explain.’

John dropped his head into his hands. ‘What do you want me to say, Sherlock?’

Sherlock snatched the book off John’s lap and shook it in his face. ‘What is this, John?’

John sighed again, resigned utterly to his fate. ‘It’s a book of magic tricks.’

Sherlock threw the book down on the coffee table. ‘Seven years, John. Seven years and you didn’t think to tell me?’ 

‘Tell you what? That I can pull off a couple of card tricks and trick a child into thinking I pulled a coin out of their ear? It’s hardly useful, Sherlock.’

‘Hardly useful? Hardly useful?’ Sherlock threw his hands up in disgust. He stomped to the window and stared out of it furiously.

‘Oohoo.’ Mrs Hudson gave a perfunctory rap on the door jamb. ‘Are you two decent? I heard shouting.’

‘It’s fine, Mrs Hudson,’ John called.

Sherlock stomped back, his dressing gown flying out behind him. He pointed an accusatory finger. ‘Is that why you’re so good at it?’

‘I’ve just got some left over nibbles. I thought you boys might like them.’ Mrs Hudson side-stepped into the kitchen.

‘Good at what?’ 

‘I’ll just put them in the fridge, John. Next to the bag of... whatever these are.’

‘That thing you do. You know, when you’ve got both hands doing that twisty pumpy milking thing you do and before I know it your fingers are right up…’

‘Sherlock!’ Horrified, John looked to Mrs Hudson who had just stepped back into the living room.

‘I’ll just let myself out, dear.’ She gave John a cheeky wink.

‘And then that thing you do when I’m sucking on your fingers and you’re rubbing your other thumb along my frenulum, and all of a sudden the rest of your fingers have somehow fluttered their way right inside and are diddling with my prostate before I’ve realized you’ve even moved.’

‘Jesus.’ John hid his flaming face in his hands.

‘I assumed it was some kind of sleight of hand. And it seems my suspicions were correct.’ Sherlock held his hand out. ‘Come on.’

John looked up. He took Sherlock’s hand. ‘What are we doing?’

‘You’re going to teach me some magic tricks, John.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Behind the scenes with Winklepicker:  
> This was originally about John playing the banjo. And then it was about his clarinet playing. And then it was about magic tricks.  
> Basically this was a few days of writing and deleting for what essentially was a fingering joke.


	17. Day 17 - Makeup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A very special Hangman edition of Chapter Summary...
> 
> Does this lipstick make my _ _ _ _ look big?

Here is a thing that John has learnt when it comes to making the perfect risotto: it is very difficult to accomplish with a Sherlock-shaped limpet attached to his back. And even more of a challenge when that Sherlock-shaped limpet is desperately humping him.

It started with pushing against John’s lower back. But while Sherlock often delighted in their height difference, this time it just wouldn’t do.

‘Get the hell off me, Sherlock.’

 _Hump, hump, hump_. ‘I need you, John.’

‘Take care of it yourself.’

 _Hump, hu…_ Sherlock paused mid thrust. ‘Take care of it myself?’

‘Yes. I'm busy.’

Sherlock pondered this for a moment, his arms still tentacle-gripped around John. ‘No. No, I don’t think that’ll work.’ _Hump, hump, hump._

He bent his knees, just a little. Just enough to happily start grinding right along John's crack. 

John, in true heroic fashion, continued to stir until a particularly energetic thrust had a glob of boiling rice land on his hand.

'Ah! Fuckety arse balls!' He shrugged Sherlock off to run his hand under the tap. 'Just go take care of it yourself Sherlock. For fuck’s sake.'

Sherlock shrunk. His face melted from surprised concern to petulant prince charming. He spun on his heel and stormed into his bedroom.

John turned the tap off and returned, with a sigh, to his stirring. His few moments of calm were soon broken by the sound of Sherlock's feet pitter pattering behind him.

'John.'

'Sherlock, I told you just...' John turned to find his voice abandoning him for safer pastures. For there Sherlock stood—naked, and impressively erect.

'Look at this, John.' Sherlock pointed at his cock.

John gurgled out 'Yeah,' and cleared his throat. 'Yep, I'm looking.'

'Look how red it is. This is intolerable. I need the blood up here, John.' He tapped his head. 'Get rid of it.'

John snorted and collected the reserves of his willpower to pull himself together. 'How about you stop being a demanding brat and get rid of it yourself?' He turned back to his risotto, pleased at his resolve.

Sherlock huffed behind him and pitter pattered back to his room. The peace was again short lived when a minute later, 'John.'

'What?'

'John.'

' _What?_ '

'John! Look, John, look.'

'No.'

' _Look._ '

John sighed, turning around. 'Can you not do this one simple...'

John froze. 

‘Look, John.’ 

John’s mouth opened and closed a few times before he remembered once again what words were. ‘I'm looking.’ He shook his head. ‘Why's it got a face on it?’

Sherlock grinned and waved his cock up and down. ‘ _Hello, John_ ,’ he thinned out his voice, ‘ _I think you should stop doing boring things in the kitchen and come do far more interesting things in the bedroom. Sherlock agrees, don't you Sherlock?_ Yes. Yes I do.’ Sherlock nodded, a picture of solemnity.

John ran his hand through his hair. 'You're utterly mad. Where'd you even get lipstick?' 

'There are many tools I need in my arsenal of disguises John.' He waved a small tube at John.

'Did you steal that from Molly?'

Sherlock spoke out the side of his mouth bobbing up and down again. ' _The colour didn't suit her anyway._ '

John took the lipstick.

'I've got to hand it to you. That _is_ adorable. It really is.' He turned back to the stove. 'And if you go sit over there on the sofa and keep that lovely cock of yours hard for the next,' John leant over to inspect his timer, 'six minutes, I am going to make you very,' John abandoned his spoon and uncapped the lipstick, 'very,' he turned, his eyes fixed to Sherlock's as he painted his mouth a deep scarlet O, 'happy.' He popped his lips.

Sherlock uttered a garbled noise, and breathed out. It took him a moment to remember to breathe in again, which started his chest rising and falling in desperate little pants. 'I stole some eyeliner too, John,' he whispered, pupils blown.

'Really?' John smiled wide and turned back to his risotto.

'Liquid and pencil.' He pawed at John's arm. 

'Good boy. We’ll negotiate terms.'


	18. Day 18 - Holding Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hands. Just hands.

This is a tale of two hands. 

The first is a fine and strong hand. This hand has seen dust and unbearable heat. It has seen hard steel and hot blood. It has glid through sweat and sparse curls on a lover's chest, chased by a tongue. It has grazed its knuckles and drawn blood from the same lover’s face. 

Right now this hand holds grief and pain and anger. It holds to them tightly, as though letting them go would set adrift pieces of itself. This hand is curled—white knuckled and tendons tensed—around the arm of a chair.

A pale slender hand hesitates close by. This hand has seen more than most hands would wish to see. It has plunged, fingers first, into rotting things. It has held guns and knives and scimitars. It has held a lovers flesh, tender and in awe that it has been permitted. It has seen the ground from a height, racing up to meet it. 

This hand’s fingers curl loose and languid. It hesitates because it doesn’t know what to do. It hesitates because it should know what to do and hates itself for not knowing. It hesitates because it doesn’t know if it is the cause of the pain it sees before it or if some other fiend has dared hurt its companion.   
It reaches out, one fingertip running soft, soft across the phalange of the other. 

Like a snail withdrawing, the hand on the armchair curls into itself. The slender hand draws back and waits, there is hope yet. The strong hand relaxes. It unfurls and, like a flower to the sun, it turns its palm to the slender hand nearby.

The slender hand, thankful, drifts down. Slender fingertips touch to sturdy fingertips and draw a slow path to palm. They tickle their way back up and push between, lacing together, warm and safe.

The slender hand helps the sturdy hand to bear the weight of the grief and pain and anger. It can’t take it away—it doesn’t know how to do that—but it can do its best to wash some of it away with love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I may have been asleep when I typed this up on my phone. At least most of it was magically there in some form when I woke up this morning.


	19. Day 19 - Date night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's date night. Sherlock doesn't like the word 'date'. John likes wine.

‘Here,’ Sherlock handed John a glass of wine. 

‘Why’d you open this? We’ve got to get going soon.’ John took a sip and grimaced. 

‘Not good?’ Sherlock poured himself a glass and gave it a suspicious sniff.

‘S’not bad.’ John took another sip. ‘Yeah, it’s alright. Seriously, why’d you open this? We’ve got a reservation at eight.’

‘It’s half six, John. We’ll be fine.’

‘You haven’t even showered.’ He took another sip. ‘It’s pretty good this.’ He gave Sherlock a smirk over the top of his glass and fluttered his eyes. ‘I can’t wait for our date.’

‘John!’

John sniggered and took another sip.

‘You know how I feel about the d word.’ Sherlock took a gulp of his wine.

‘What? You mean date?’

‘Stop it. You’re making me queasy.’ Sherlock drained the rest of his glass. ‘I’m going to wash.’

‘Don’t take too long.’ John drained his own glass and poured himself another.

 

 

 

It was ten to seven when Sherlock emerged, washed, dressed, and slightly confused to find John leaning on the kitchen bench munching on a ham sandwich.

‘What the hell are you doing? I thought we were going out to eat.’  
John thumped his chest and burped. ‘I got a bit,’ he squinted at the sad little sandwich in his hand and burped again, ‘peckish. You want some?’ He held it out.

Sherlock shook his head. He refilled their glasses and handed one to John. ‘Are _you_ dressed? You’re not wearing that are you?’

John looked down at himself. ‘S’alright. What’s wrong with me?’

Sherlock laughed, ‘Oh so many things, John. Finish your sandwich.’ He knocked back the glass and poured another.

 

 

 

Sherlock sat on the floor, his back to the sofa, legs outstretched to accommodate John’s head on his lap. He combed his fingers through John’s hair, scratching his scalp as he watched his doctor make a valiant attempt to drink his wine with a bendy straw.

John blinked sleepily. ‘We go. We should go now. S’time?’

Sherlock brought his wrist up to his face, then dropped his arm back down with a thump. ‘Can’t see, hold on.’ He took a gulp of his wine and placed the glass back on its precarious perch on the sofa behind him. He brought his wrist up again and blinky blinked at it for several seconds. He dropped it down again. ‘Forgot to put my watch on, John.’

‘Ah, shame.’ John puckered his lips trying to chase his straw. He caught it only to flick it out of the glass, covering his face with drops of red wine. He spat the straw out and cackled. Sherlock joined him with a rumbling laugh and beamed down at his drunk little love.

John sloshed his glass about in front of Sherlock’s face. ‘More wine, boy.’

Sherlock pouted, eyeing the empty bottle on the coffee table. John followed his gaze. ‘S’alright. We’ll get more. A gooder wine. Where’s the gooder wine?’

Sherlock shook his head, at least he tried to. What he actually did was flop it about in random patterns. ‘No more wine.’

‘Whiskey?’ John asked, a hopeful spark in his voice.

Sherlock punched both fists into the air. ‘Whiskey!’

 

 

 

‘Yeah, thas good. Oh, god yeah. Good. Bit faster.’ John writhed, his thighs sprawled wide, Sherlock’s cock deep and warm inside him.

Sherlock attempted a few uncoordinated drunken thrusts in his sitting position on the floor. His head lolled back on the sofa.

John huffed out tiny moans with each thrust. ‘Fuck yes. God you’re good. Faster.’

Sherlock obliged, thrusting faster and, if possible, even less rhythmically. His thighs shook with inebriated effort.

‘Nah. No. Nope. Stop.’ John dropped his forehead onto Sherlock’s shoulder. ‘Don’t move. Gonna be sick.’

Sherlock’s head sprang up so fast he saw sparks behind his eyes. ‘Please, no.’

‘Hang on.’ John swept at the floor with one hand until he hit his tumbler. It rattled with half melted ice-cubes. He drank down the whiskey tinged water and crunched a bit of ice in his mouth. ‘Kay.’ He burped. ‘Keep going.’

 

 

 

John crawled about looking for his pants while Sherlock tucked himself back into his.

‘Don’t you two _ever_ shut your door?’ Lestrade screamed, his back turned.

‘We shut the door downstairs,’ Sherlock pointed downstairs. Lestrade’s back was uninterested.

‘Why the…’ John hiccupped. ‘Why’d Hudson let you in?’ He pulled his trousers up and searched for the zip until he realised they were on backwards.

‘She told me I could go on up. I did think it was odd she was wearing headphones come to think of it.’ Lestrade risked turning around to see if they were decent. ‘Oh god. What the hell is _this_?’ He checked the heel of his shoe. ‘Please tell me I haven’t just stepped on a body part, Sherlock.’

Sherlock bent over to take a closer look, scrunching his face with the effort. ‘S’ham.’

‘What?’

Sherlock straightened and breathed whiskey flavoured air into Lestrade’s face. ‘Is haaaaaaaam.’

Lestrade looked to John.

‘Yeah. Yep. But what he said. The Sherlock. For the ham he said.’

‘Are you two drunk?’

‘No?’ Sherlock raised his eyebrows and looked to Lestrade for confirmation. None was forthcoming. He snapped his fingers in sudden excitement. ‘Yes!’

‘Lil bit.’ John squinted at Lestrade through the ring of his thumb and forefinger.

Sherlock started giggling. Then John started giggling, still spying Lestrade through the circle of his hand.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. ‘I’ll wait downstairs then, shall I?’ He wiped his heel on the floor and made his way out.

With their giggles subsiding, John shrugged his jacket on and Sherlock slowly wended his way around invisible obstacles to fetch his scarf from the hook on the door.

‘Les do this again, John.’ Sherlock scowled trying to convince his hands to loop his scarf. He gave up and draped it over his shoulders.

‘Issa date.’ John laughed maniacally as he ducked under Sherlock’s outraged swinging arm, slapped him on the bottom and staggered down the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's October. We'll get there, we'll get there.
> 
> I've snuck a line in that came about while I fell asleep typing. Basically this entire chapter was built around that line.


	20. Day 20 - Pining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes and John Watson do not pine for each other, so they say.

Sherlock Holmes does not pine. On the rare occasions John goes away, Sherlock does not sit staring out the window at passers-by. He doesn't lounge about undressed and unkempt, constantly texting, trying to get John’s attention. He doesn’t shoot the walls, yell at Mrs. Hudson, or call Lestrade an idiot in sheer frustration.

  
Alright, yes. Good point. He does _sometimes_ do _some_ of those things but to be fair he does them whether John is there or not. Is it pining? It's hard to tell.

  
Besides, he’s always got the John simulacrum in his mind. It switches on automatically whenever John has left his line of sight. And even sometimes when he hasn't.

  
John—the real John—is often taken aback by Sherlock’s non sequiturs. What he forgets is that Sherlock has likely been explaining things to mind-John moments before. For Sherlock, every conversation with John is a continuum, whether it’s in his mind or not.

  
So Sherlock doesn't pine. John is there, always.

  
Except...

  
Except, except, except.

  
In this world, where he and John are _Sherlock & John_, Sherlock does much more of that thing called sleep. He can spend a day lost in his mind, solving problems, ignoring the world, but as soon as John makes for bed Sherlock’s body begins the necessary preparations.

  
He is promptly ejected from his mind palace with a firm, “And stay out!” The pulse in his cock makes itself known—not insistent, but a gentle reminder to prepare for any eventuality, be it sleep or pleasure. His eyes grow heavy, movements languid, mind quiet.

  
Sherlock has set up thermometers, barometers, EMF meters, hygrometers—all to detect what it is in the air when John prepares for bed that can bring Sherlock out of the deepest trance—to no avail.

  
So when Sherlock goes to bed without John, he waits for his body to slow and his mind to shut the hell up. 

And he waits.

  
And waits.

 

 

And waits.

And then he pummels his pillow into new shapes to see if that works.  
And then he starfishes about and sniffs every molecule of John he can find deep into his lungs to see if that works.  
And then he gets up, makes a cup of tea, browses through yesterday’s classifieds, checks his phone for messages, sips his tea, grimaces, pours the cold tea down the sink, and goes back to bed.  
To see if that helps.

It doesn’t.

He turns onto his back, his side, his front. Turns his face to the left, to the right, to the left again. He snuffles a sigh into his pillow, then lifts himself onto his hands and knees and glares at the empty space beside him.

  
It’s not pining though. Sherlock Holmes said so.

 

 

John Watson certainly does not pine. He’s a grown man, for crying out loud.

  
It’s rare enough that he and Sherlock are ever apart for more than a day but when they are, John revels in his tiny slice of freedom.

  
He can sit quietly in a comfortable chair with a cup of tea and a biscuit, and no danger of being whisked away on a madcap adventure.  
He can watch television. Bad television, for as long as he likes with no running commentary from the King of Snark. Just heavenly, heavenly silence.  
He can use the loo in blessed isolation, safe in the knowledge that no one will burst in to update him on the latest developments in their fungal culture or just to have a chat.  
He can sleep sleep sleep to his heart’s content without being smothered by oddly flexible limbs or being dry-humped awake in the wee hours of the morning.  
He is free to do whatever he wants with not a soul to judge.

  
He hates this. _Hates it_. Every single moment, from his uninterrupted tea to his 7 hour sleep. It’s boring. It’s dull. He may as well be missing a vital organ.

  
He deduces strangers as best he can and imagines sweet rumbles of encouragement. He provides the commentary to his own poor televisual choices. He lies alone in far too big beds, softly humming so he can’t hear how quiet it is.

  
But he’s certainly not pining.

  
No.

  
Not John Watson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I needed a teeny tiny rest, but back to keeping my eye on that Day 30 in the distance.


	21. Day 21 - Birdwatching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has a problem. Sherlock has a solution.

‘Just… get out of my way, Sherlock. This isn’t a joke.’

‘John,’ Sherlock held out a placating hand, ‘I need you to calm down.’

‘Calm down?’ John’s voice was quiet, and terrifying. Quietly terrifying. He was at the stage Sherlock called _Danger Level: Remove Sharp Objects, Tyre Levers and John’s Gun_. ‘You’re telling me to calm down?’

In the face of a John Watson at _Danger Level: Remove Sharp Objects, Tyre Levers and John’s Gun_ , any ordinary person would have soiled their pants, or at the very least backed away to a safe distance. Sherlock Holmes was far from an ordinary person. 

‘John, look at me. Let me help you, this isn’t the way. We can fix this, just,’ he held his hand out for the gun, ‘please, John. For me.’

John looked at the gun, almost surprised to see it in his hand. He shook his head. His face grew slack and then crumpled. A sob welled from deep inside and erupted as his knees gave way. ‘Sherlock.’

As though dealing with a frightened animal, Sherlock knelt in front of John, slow as he could manage, and ever so gently prised the gun from his grip. Without checking the safety—because he was Sherlock—he tucked it into his back pocket and gathered John into his arms.

‘It’s been ten fucking days Sherlock,’ John choked out between tear soaked hiccups. ‘I can’t do this anymore.’

‘I’ll fix it John, I swear to you.’

‘I’m not a violent man…’

Sherlock tilted his head. ‘Mm, really? Would we go that far?’

‘…but there’s only so much I can take.’ John clawed at Sherlock’s back.

‘Of course.’ 

‘They just… why won’t they shut up?’ He let out another sob. ‘Those arsing fucking blackbirds.’

‘I don’t know, John. But I’ll make them stop.’

‘It’s four in the fucking morning.’

‘It is.’

‘I wasn’t going to shoot them.’ John’s bleary red eyes met Sherlock’s shining clear ones.

‘Of course not.’ 

‘I’m just,’ he started shaking with laughter, ‘going a little crazy.’

Sherlock unstuck himself from John’s damp face and clasped it with both hands. ‘Would you like me to shoot them? I’ll shoot them for you, John. Every last bastard one of them.’

John sighed and kneaded his eyes. ‘I think that might be frowned on.’

‘Poison?’

‘No! No.’

Sherlock thought for a moment. ‘I’ll call Mycroft.’

‘What?’

‘If anyone can fix this, it’s the British Government.’ Sherlock rummaged in his pocket for his phone.

‘You’re going to ask your brother to get rid of some noisy birds? For me?’

‘I’d do anything for you, John. I assumed that was clear by now.’ He stabbed at Mycroft’s number.

‘It’s four in the morning.’

Sherlock gave John the widest grin he had. ‘That, John, is an added bonus.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many many many many many many thanks to Atlinmerrick for ensuring me this was indeed finished so I could go to bed.


	22. Day 22 - Rainy Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock hates the rain. John loves it.

Here’s the thing about rainy days.

John loves them. 

Sure, every now and then the damp makes his joints ache and on those days he feels like yelling at his knees and wondering when exactly he’d turned into his grandmother. But that doesn’t mean he can’t settle near a window with a good book, his feet up, a pitty-pat-pat-pat on the glass panes, and custard cream crumbs on his chest.

But Sherlock. Oh, Sherlock. Nobody has arch-enemies in real life but if anyone comes close, it’s Sherlock Holmes. Picture the scene—Sherlock stands by the window, twitching back the curtain. He glares, scowls with all the ferocity one reserves for the foulest, most evil of evils, the baddest shit that can go down. _That_ is how Sherlock looks at rain. Criminals aren’t really up to much, in the rain. They should be, it’s perfect for washing away evidence. 

And speaking of rain washing away evidence, that is what led Sherlock to be standing under the awning of a small doorway in an alley, fuming as he watched a forensics team running around covering what they could with a tarp. He was soaked. Utterly and completely wet through and through having left his coat behind in the summer heat.

‘…cannot believe the heights of incompetence they’ve finally reached, John. We have a weather service. Would it be too much to hope they would use it when they’re stepping outdoors? Half the footprints are washed away already. Utterly ridiculous. And where the hell was Lestrade in all of this? He’s the one that called me out here. I can only assume he had more incompetence to supervise elsewhere and frankly, if you ask me…’

He barely noticed John unbuttoning his trousers. 

His flapping tongue did not so much as stumble when John pulled his zip down. 

Sherlock carried right on with his tirade. Until John stuck his hand through the leg of his pants and cradled the penis he kept nestled there. To be clear, it was Sherlock’s own penis, not a random one he’d nicked—which, to be fair, would not be beyond the realms of possibility.

And that is what John did. Just held it. 

And Sherlock? 

Well, Sherlock stopped. 

Stopped talking. Stopped waving his arms about. 

Stopped. 

His eyes flitter-fluttered, and his lips made a last ditch attempt to produce some, _any_ kind of sound. Eventually his mouth abandoned the notion and settled into a plump, tooth-nibbled line of anticipation.

John squeezed. Just a little.

Sherlock's voice surfaced again for a quickly aborted, 'Wha...', before John _stroked_. A light, feather light, tiny sigh-breath light pet of his thumb, his knuckles settled against the soft warmth of Sherlock's sack. Sherlock sighed, his eyes fixed on to the jamb of the door, hooded and distant.

If a blood cell had a voice—it doesn't but if it did—it would have perked up, sniffed the air, looked around at its fellow cells, raised its arm in the air (yes, arm) and shouted "Right lads, it's time. Chaaaaaaaarge”. But let us not get caught up in the fictional lives of body fluids.

There was a surge. John felt it. The rush of hot, the pulse, the hardening, widening, lengthening. He smirked, his eyes twinkling and wrinkling at Sherlock before they slid toward movement at the end of the alley. 

The smirk dropped for the briefest of moments before it returned double strength, and maybe tinged with evil-not-evil intent. Lestrade had arrived on the scene and had just spotted them. 

John stepped in closer. He pulled his hand out of Sherlock’s pants and carefully tugged them down. Sherlock’s burgeoning erection popped its happy head up, reveling in the fresh air before John cocooned it in his warm hand again.

With his left hand full and his right arm akimbo, he looked for all the world like a man casually waiting for a bus. He gave Lestrade a nod hello and _stroked down two three, up two three, stop_. 

Sherlock bit his lip a little harder.

‘Alright John. Sherlock,’ Greg returned the nod. His brow wrinkled and he tilted his chin at Sherlock’s back. ‘What’s with him?’

John shook his head and rolled his eyes. ‘Mind palace.’ _Stroke down two twist three, up two twist three_. John thought he heard the quietest of grunts. His thumb made happy circuits around a rapidly moistening tip.

Lestrade gave a huffed little laugh. ‘Right.’ He rolled his eyes back at John. ‘Look, sorry about all this,’ he half turned, gesturing at the tarped scene, ‘looks like this rain isn’t going away any time soon.’

Sherlock let out a bullish puff from his nose. This had nothing to do with Lestrade’s words and everything to do with the quickening pace of John’s hand on his rainwater-sticky cock. 

Lestrade’s eyes narrowed at Sherlock. ‘You two might as well go. I’ll call you when we can get back to it.’

‘Yeah, sounds good.’ Only John, marvelous John, could have pumped his fist so enthusiastically over Sherlock’s hard flesh while keeping the rest of his body perfectly still. Sherlock moaned, running his tongue over his bottom lip.

‘Is he alright?’ Lestrade took a step closer.

‘It’s fine.’ John waved him off. He made a study of Sherlock’s face. ‘Looks like he’s pretty close to a conclusion.’ Sherlock’s hand thrust out to push against the frame of the doorway, his hips began little stuttering thrusts.

Lestrade frowned, ‘If you say so.’ He side-eyed Sherlock’s gently rocking back. ‘I always found that mind thing he does a bit creepy to be honest. I’ll leave you to it.’ He turned and walked back to the rest of the team.

John smiled at Lestrade’s back and then dropped his voice down low. ‘Can you touch your toes, Sherlock? It doesn’t matter if you’re not sure. When we get home, I’m going to bend you over and we’ll find out together because I am going to…’

‘Sorry, one more thing,’ Lestrade jogged back toward them.

John raised his eyebrows, his voice light. ‘Yeah?’

‘I’ve got a couple of…’ Lestrade’s eyes squinted at Sherlock. ‘…erm, couple of cases. Cold cases, but thought you… he’s still in his…?’

‘Yep.’

‘Ok, good. Right. Anyway, they’re on my desk. Grab them when you’re next in.’

‘Great. He’ll love that. Cheers, Greg.’ John’s hand was flying, flourishing twists abandoned, finesse out the window. Sherlock clenched his teeth, clenched his eyes, clenched his arse.

Lestrade nodded, frowned at Sherlock’s back then headed off again.

Sherlock came. Not with a delicious moan, not with a restrained whimper. With a roar. Long, loud, and deep. The roar became a huff-huff-huff and then a growl of pure golden-syrup fuckery. He tipped, like a falling tree, to lean his head against his hand on the door frame, his chest heaving.

John presented his fingers to Sherlock’s lips for cleaning.

‘Jesus. What the hell was that?’ Lestrade yelled, spinning around in mid-stride. The eyes of the entire forensic team were trained on them.

Sherlock diligently suckled on John’s fingers, lapping away every trace of himself.

John held his right palm up. ‘Nothing. It’s all fine. He’s just _really_ annoyed about the rain.’ 

Lestrade shook his head and returned to the crime scene. John grinned wide and ran his damp fingers down Sherlock’s cheek. He gave a short cackle then skipped—actually skipped—into the rain to the high street.

John loves rainy days.


	23. Day 23 - Stargazing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solar system? What solar system?

‘That one’s Ursula Marjoram.’ Sherlock waved a limp-wristed hand in the vague direction of the sky.

‘Ursula Marjoram?’ John asked. He sprawled on his back with Sherlock using him like a pillow.

‘Ursula Marjoram. After Lady Marjoram of...’

‘Ursula?’

‘Of Ursula. And that one is Obi-Wan’s belt.’

Sherlock’s head bounced about on John’s belly while John did his best not to choke on his own spit. 

‘Do you know who Obi-Wan is?’ John managed to giggle out.

Sherlock pointed up to a random point in the clear night sky. ‘He’s a man. With a belt?’

John raked his nails through Sherlock’s curls, spreading his fingers to pull apart the knots. ‘Yeah, he’s got a belt, I suppose. What else have you got?’

‘The Big Ripper.’

‘Right.’

‘He’s got a knife, see,’ Sherlock pointed at another random line of stars, ‘very stabby.’

John let out a breath that curled, dense and white, into the moonlit air. The two men fell silent, hearing only a faint drip from somewhere within the concrete walls surrounding them, and a chorus of crickets outside. The broken ceiling beams above them formed a gaping maw of black teeth across the night sky.

‘How’s your leg?’ Sherlock whispered.

‘Sore. A bit numb.’

Sherlock tilted his head back, questioning.

‘It’s fine, just normal, I-haven’t-moved-for-a-while numbness. I can wiggle my toes.’

Sherlock grunted.

‘How’s your head?’ John spidered his hand around Sherlock’s face until it was swatted away.

‘I’ll live, if Lestrade gets here before I die of boredom. So it’s touch and go at the moment.’

‘Speaking of.’ John rubbed Sherlock’s shoulder. ‘Listen.’ 

The faint sound of a siren was getting closer, slowly starting to drown out the crickets.

‘Oh, thank god,’ Sherlock rolled over to rest his chin on John’s chest. ‘I’d run out of stars to get wrong.’

‘That’s it then is it? You know three things?’

‘Yep,’ Sherlock popped his p.

‘So Ursa Major, Orion’s belt and the Big Dipper?’

‘Yep,’ Sherlock popped again.

‘You know that’s only two things, right?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a very short and very silly result of writer's block. On to sickness.


	24. Day 24 - Sickness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is sick. Sherlock is gross.

John clutched at his stomach and clenched his teeth through the pain as he strained, every muscle taut, at the end of another coughing fit. He swore he could feel the revival of a six-pack—maybe an eight. 

He looked down at himself to see if it was visible, only to have cascading shower water trickle down his face and into his nostrils. And that just started him coughing all over again. 

Over the sound of the shower and of his own lungs attempting a daring escape from his chest, he heard a sharp rap on the bathroom door followed by Sherlock’s demanding voice. 

"What colour is it?" 

Had John not been busy attempting to breathe against his rebellious lungs, he would have sighed—he is awfully good at sighing, is John. Instead he coughed, and managed to croak out a fed-up, "What?". 

"Your sputum, John. What colour?" 

John squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. He took advantage of a small break in his coughing to rinse out any shampoo still lingering his hair. 

"John?" 

John's eyes grew heavy under the calming beat of warm water. He very actively was not listening to the voice outside the door. While John swayed sleepily and contemplated sitting down under the warm stream, he felt a rush of cold air. 

John opened his eyes and recoiled back with a scream, his back hitting the tiles. He gave another small yelp at the chill as his back registered the cold of the shower wall. 

_"Fucking hell in an egg sandwich!"_ Is something John might have yelled if the shock of seeing Sherlock’s face peeking around the shower curtain hadn't started him coughing again. 

Sherlock looked at him expectantly. When John’s cough calmed down, he glared back for a moment before hitching his thumb towards the door. "Clear off." 

“The colour and texture can often be an indicator of the type of…" 

“Yes, thank you, Doctor Holmes." John cut Sherlock off. "Oh, wait, no. _I’m_ the doctor. Now get out and leave me in peace." His words faded into breathy whispers as he again doubled up with coughing. When he stopped at last, he looked up to see Sherlock with a soft smile on his face.

"What?" John frowned.

Sherlock grinned. "Little John jiggles about when you cough." 

John automatically glanced down at Little John who, much like Robin Hood's companion, was rather ironically named. 

John shook his head and laughed. "You are an idiot." He looked up with a soft smile, noticing the shower curtain wafting in and out rhythmically. He narrowed his eyes at Sherlock. 

"Are you touching yourself behind there?" 

Sherlock’s eyes flitted about searching for the correct answer. He opted for, "No," which resulted in pursed lips from John, and so changed his answer to a tentative, "Yes?"

John sighed again. It was no small wonder he was so prone to coughs given his propensity for forced exhalations. 

“All right. You can come in, but,” John held his finger up, “clothes off. I know you thought it was sexy and all…”

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but John’s fingers flew out and smooshed onto his lips.

“…and it was, it was. But I’m the one who had to listen to you complaining about the ruination of your favourite trousers.”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock’s face disappeared behind the curtain. John heard the frantic shuffle of clothing being unbuttoned and unzipped and tossed about. He smiled to himself and calculated the number of hand-delivered Lemsips he’d get out of Sherlock in exchange.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I find myself a little sad that I'm getting close to the end. But a little excited too about lots of new things.


	25. Day 25 - Missing Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is away from home. Sherlock finds a coping mechanism.

John’s pocket buzzed. 

He ignored it. But he did wonder what the protocol was for sneakily checking your phone at a funeral. 

His pocket buzzed again. And again. That was no text, it was a call. A bloody call. No one called him, except… damn it. Damn him.

John snuck a look around. All eyes were on Uncle Bryan eulogizing the hell out of Great Aunt Florence. He slipped his hand into his pocket and half-pulled his phone out to peek at the screen. It was Sherlock—the man who never called. Damn and double damn.

John got up, wincing as the pew creaked, and crouch-shuffled as quietly as he could past veiny feet and knobbly knees and tutting relatives. 

He escaped through the church doors into the vestibule and swiped to take the call. 

‘Sherlock?’

All John heard was faint shuffling, then a breath.

‘Sherlock, can you hear me? Are you ok?’

A sharp gasp. ‘John?’

John let go the breath he’d been holding. ‘What’s happening? Are you alright?’

A long breath in, a long breath out, a small sob. ‘John.’

John looked over his shoulder, a hint of panic began to rise. ‘Jesus, Sherlock, tell me what’s happening. Are you hurt?’

A pained groan.

‘That’s it. I’m calling Greg. Just… just hold on okay, I’ll be…’

There was a long moan. A long long moan. A deep moan. A rumbling, glacial, nougat-dipped-in-dark-chocolate-and-covered-in-edible-velvet moan.

‘Oh,’ said John’s mouth, who got it a millisecond before John’s brain caught up and made his mouth utter another longer, louder, ‘Oh!’

A warm ball of sensation dropped like a shot from somewhere between John's eyes down to his stomach. It passed his nipples along the way, making them tingle ever so slightly. The warmth then seeped its way straight to his cock and started thrumming and pulsing away there.

‘John,’ Sherlock whisper-hissed, his breathing shallow and quick.

‘Sherlock,’ John bit his bottom lip and shook his head, ‘this isn’t a great time.’ He shuffled his feet and pressed the heel of his hand down, rocking his hips ever so slightly. He glanced up to see a timetable for under tens Sunday school and a poster for a fundraising cake stall. He winced, took his hand off himself like a guilty schoolboy, and spun away from the notice board. 

The sound of a church full of people standing all at once echoed through the doors. John stepped back as they swung open. At the same time Sherlock grunted deep in his ear. John pressed himself against the wall to let everyone pass while a rustle and a swoosh sounded in his ear. Then John could hear it. A slick, wet, rhythmic beat. 

'Holy fucking...' John breathed. He nodded and smiled as everyone passed, 'Yep, okay,' he murmured, 'this is happening.'

'Really, John? I hope that's an emergency.' His cousin Faye pursed her lips at him as she passed.

'Yeah, cheers Faye, it is actually, thanks for asking.' John did his best not to give Faye the stink-eye, for that would've been childish and petty. John failed and then stuck his tongue out at Faye's back for good measure.

'Mrs Hudson brought up some folded laundry.' Sherlock's voice gave John a start, as did a pat on the arm from someone who was likely a relative but who John did not recognise.

John tipped his chin at the man as he passed. 'Why are we talking about laundry all of a sudden?'

Sherlock let out a long sensuous hiss. 'I was rather bored, John.'

'You're always bored,' John muttered, turning to see the coffin being carried down the aisle. He left the vestibule to join the small crowd outside.

'Mmm, I was very bored this time. I decided to make,' Sherlock gave a growling rumble, 'myself at home.'

'You _are_ at home.'

'Not when you're not here.'

John, struck dumb for a moment, stared at the pallbearers straining under the weight of the coffin as they descended three steps to the gravel drive. 'That is possibly the sweetest thing you've ever said to me.'

'I won't, ah, oh god, make a habit of it.' Sherlock was panting again. 'Do you want to see?'

'What? No. What?' John crept back around the perimeter of the gathering and made his way back into the vestibule. The coffin was in the hearse, soon everyone would peel off for the graveyard. 

'Seriously, Sherlock, this is great. I wish to god I was there but I can't do this right n...' 

John's phone pinged. A photo. He opened the file to see a view down the length of Sherlock's naked torso. Laid out beneath him on the sofa was one of John's jumpers and a pair of jeans, clearly stuffed with more clothes. Sherlock's bare hips were pressed against the fly of John's jeans.

John blinky-blinked at his phone. Down there, far away in his hand, Sherlock's voice was grunting something.

John kept right on blinky-blinking. He raised the phone slowly back to his ear and slurred, 'What?'

Sherlock's voice was broken now by pants and grunts and a thump thump thump. Though as the rest of the world faded away, John couldn't be sure if the thumping was coming from the phone or his own heart.

Sherlock's moans grew higher and desperate, punctuated only by a series of, 'J... J... J...'

John, in a vague far-off way grateful for his tight pants and forgiving trousers, was sweating with arousal, embarrassment, and a desperate need to be anywhere but where he was. 

Sherlock's Js grew into a crescendo until he howled down the phone, just as a hand clasped John's shoulder. 'John?'

John yelped and spun on his heel, his phone clattering to the tiled floor. 

'Blimey, you alright?' Uncle Bryan bent down, picked up John's phone. John snatched it in horror, but the call had ended. 'We're off now. Want a lift?'

'Plea-,' John's voice cracked. He cleared his throat. 'Please. Yeah, thanks ? I'll be there in a minute.'

As Uncle Bryan walked away the phone buzzed in John's hand. It was a blurred photo of his clothes-stuffed simulacrum with a small saucepan where his head should be, Sherlock's slender hand covered in sticky whitish streaks painting a smiley face on it.

John barked a loud laugh, which echoed in the small vestibule. He cocked a leg, wiggled and adjusted himself, and strutted off to an awkward car ride.


	26. Day 26 - Before They Met

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before they met. Right before. Like _just_ before.

The corridors looked familiar—the same old thing but so different. Because Bart’s had gotten on with the business of _being_ after he’d left, just as he had. Just as Mike had. 

He hadn’t recognized Mike at first, not until he’d smiled. It was the dimples that did it. He’d always had trouble with faces. 

His hand hurt. Ridiculous cane. The rubber was cracked right where the pad of his thumb pressed down on it the hardest. The blisters had come and gone, all that was left was just a callous. It still stung if he walked too far. Damn his leg. It hurt. Didn’t it? He was almost sure it hurt. Was that a twinge?

Being back at Bart’s was odd. No, not odd. It was, nothing. He didn’t care. New paint, new equipment, same walls. It meant nothing to him.

‘In here.’ Mike ushered John into one of the newly furnished labs.

‘Bit different in my day.’ John’s breath caught in his chest, his eyes locked on to a luminously pale face at the end of the room. He let the breath out. Interesting.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

His shoulder hurt. But then whipping a corpse within an inch of its… erm… whipping a corpse quite vigorously, without a warm up could do that. 

He hadn’t meant to go so hard but visualizing Mycroft had certainly helped. Especially given the fruit salad incident. Sherlock felt happier, lighter, generous. More inclined to think of his brother as a slightly offensive member of the class Mammalia rather than an incredibly irritating mollusc.

He was not a vain man, except when he was. He’d felt the first twinges in his shoulder and from there had cascaded thoughts of not being as young as he used to be. Molly kindly offered to fetch him a coffee in a strange and dithering sort of way. He’d washed his hands and gone to the loo to check all the usual hidey-spots for grey hairs after that, just to make sure. He found none and was surprised by the strength of his relief. 

Now, hunched over a Petri dish with his all-purpose sciency blue liquid, his pipetting thumb began to seize. He wondered if this is all there was to look forward to. Vague aches and pains from the slightest exertions.

There were quiet voices in the corridor. Mike, he thought, and someone else. The door swished open. It _was_ Mike and… and… oh.


	27. Day 27 - Siblings/Family Gathering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Sherlock ought not to keep his family waiting, not when lunch is getting cold and John is hungry
> 
> 2\. John enjoys needling Sherlock with pet names that annoy him

‘Sherlock, my love, my poppet, my angel, get up.’

A low growl came from the sofa. Or more accurately, from a pile of blue silk and heavy wool, beneath which was a Sherlock-shaped lump.

‘It’s gone half three my dearest honey-pie, we have to leave now.’

Another growl, lower, threatening.

John’s hand crept toward the hem of Sherlock’s greatcoat, where he estimated Sherlock’s head might be. He ever so slowly pinched the material between thumb and forefinger, though before he had lifted it an inch, a loud hiss sounded and a vicious hand swiped at him. John jumped back in surprise, whipping his hand away. 

‘I will very much detail why we are late direct to you mother’s face. You know full well I will, sweetheart.’ 

Another hiss, though it attempted to turn into a growl. It failed and ended up sounding like a hairball being hacked up.

‘Is that what you want, pumpkin, is it? You want me to tell your mother we’re late because instead of getting ready you decided to sit yourself bare-arsed on the kitchen table, legs akimbo, fingering yourself? Hmm? Shouting to the blue heavens for me to shove my cock in quick and fuck you senseless—to paraphrase your oh so poetic turn of phrase? Shall I tell her that?’

The Sherlock shaped lump was silent.

‘What about Mycroft? How about that, baby, cupcake, my heart’s desire? Maybe I’ll sit myself down with Mycroft in a cosy corner and tell him, no, show him exactly what noises you made when I _was_ fucking you senseless. He’d like that, I’m sure.’

There was a soft rustle, and a head of disheveled curls popped up from beneath the coat. John kept his Captain’s stance in the face of a level nine Sherlock scowl.

‘Come to think of it,’ John tipped his head and narrowed his eyes right back, ‘I wonder what your dad might think of how you like me to pull out until just the tip is inside. And then in, and then out, and then in and then out.’

Sherlock unfolded from the sofa like a sinister but very naked mist, his eyes never leaving John’s, his lips pressed into a thin petulant line.

‘Think he’d like to hear how much you love it when I scoop up my own come and feed it to you? How you moan and slurp around my fingers, think he’d enjoy that? What do you think my little love muffin?’

The corners of Sherlock’s mouth twisted down. And like the mature grown man he was, gave a humph of annoyance and stamped his foot before marching his bare bottom off to fetch some clothes.

‘Good boy. Love you long time, sweetie darling.’


	28. Day 28 - (Potential) Wedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is drunk (on cooking wine). 
> 
> Sherlock is high (on accidental mushrooms). 
> 
>  
> 
> This is a thing that is happening *shakes head at self*

Okay, so. Here’s the thing. John Watson is a very clever man. 

But occasionally even the cleverest people can be complete and utter idiots, and one of those occasions was now. Because John Watson—Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, three years in Afghanistan, a veteran of Qandahar, Helmand and Barts bloody hospital—was cooking up a storm, wiggling his fine arse to a song on the radio, and taking a swig or twelve of the cooking wine he’d sploshed into the soup. 

The soup he was making with mushrooms. 

Mushrooms he’d found in their fridge. 

Mushrooms that he had not bought himself. 

Granted, he’d had a couple of pints before he got home but years of body parts in bread bins and molds called Hector in the fridge should have taught him to be more cautious. 

It was as John hit a high note in _I Believe in a Thing Called Love_ that Sherlock sauntered in—all soft-faced and slow limbs—having woken from an angry-nap he’d taken after an irritating client visit. John spun around with his wooden spoon microphone and spluttered to a halt when he noticed Sherlock. 

He flashed a grin and handed Sherlock the spoon. ‘Here, stir the… the thing.’ He flopped his hand vaguely in the direction of the hob. ‘I need a wee.’

Sherlock, a confused frown playing on his brow, watched John head to the bathroom before investigating the pot of bubbling soup. He squinted through the steam with a dubious pout before dipping the spoon in for a taste.

Now, here’s another thing. Sherlock, after an angry nap, can go one of two ways: fall into a further sulk or wake up in a much better mood with the munchies. This time it was the second option and by the time John returned, half the soup was gone. 

 

Now, if you’d kindly cue the obligatory passage-of-time harp music and set the dial to an hour hence…

 

‘John. Johns shh... John. C'mere. Shhh... c'mere.’ Sherlock lay sprawled on the floor in front of the sofa. He gestured wildly with both his arms, his flailing a sharp contrast to his whispered plea.

‘Whah?’ John replied, staring slack-mouthed at Sherlock. He swayed in a non-existent breeze.

‘C'mere, and shushes,’ Sherlock pressed his index finger to his lips, or so he thought. It was, in fact, up his left nostril. ‘I've show you something. And a half. Iss iss iss iss _definitely_ something, and a half.’

‘Uh.’ John replied. He blinked slowly then looked down at his legs willing them to move. He managed to lift one foot and then dropped it down slightly ahead of the other. Now, if he could just get the other leg to do the same and carry on like that, John was fairly certain he could get to where Sherlock was by some time next Tuesday afternoon.

‘Sh'lock, pssst,’ _stomp_ ‘Sh'lock, I'm coming. Look.’ _stomp_

‘Shhh. Sshhhhhhhh. John, John!’

‘What? Shh?’

‘Yes. Exacil... Exacult... Exaculty. Exactilly. Shhhhh,’ Sherlock shouted.

‘Ok,’ _stomp_ ‘Ok, I'm shhhhhed. Ooph. Hello, ‘ere I am.’ John slurred as his foot stomped down on Sherlock's knee.

Sherlock’s body jerked and a meaty thump sounded from beneath the sofa. A high-pitched keen soon rose up to greet John’s drunken ears.

‘Shhhhh. Sorryshlock. Sorry. Shhh whatst? What you lookin at? Shh.’

‘Ow!’ Sherlock sat up from his prone position on the floor and pouted sadly at John. ‘Ow.’ He repeated.

‘Awwwww.’ John knelt next to the sprawled detective, each knee clicking as he grunted his way down. He patted Sherlock's head clumsily. ‘Shall... _hiccup_ shall I kiss it better?’

Sherlock glared at John for a moment before burrowing his head beneath the sofa.

John blinky-blinked as he rocked back onto his heels. His eyes wandered from Sherlock's shoulders, down his back, pausing at the tantalising strip of skin between his threadbare t-shirt and the waistband of his pyjamas. His eyes then came to rest—as they so often did—on Sherlock’s plush backside. 

John giggled. He wobbled forward onto his knees again, concentrating on not falling over as he bent down to blow a raspberry on Sherlock's back.

Sherlock oophed in surprise, knocking his head again on the underside of the sofa with a hollow thunk. John bit hard on his knuckle. He tried to stop the snorts of laughter that were threatening to escape as a huffing Sherlock wriggled out nursing his head and sulking accusingly at John.

‘Aww. Uh-oh. Oh no.’ John pouted his very best sorrowful face. He tottered up on his knees and bent down to shower sloppy drunken kisses all over Sherlock’s head. ‘Kissy kissy boo boos better.’

‘M'not showing now,’ Sherlock grumbled.

‘Aw, thas a shame,’ John shrugged and carried on kissing him, occasionally stopping to extract hair from nose and mouth.

‘M'not showing the good thing what I founded under the sofa. So... HA!’ Sherlock exclaimed with a lofty pointed finger.

John giggled into Sherlock's curls. ‘ _I_ finded a good thing under the sofa.’

‘Pfff, not gooder than my thing.’

‘Mmm. I like your thing.’ John dropped his voice to seduction level and started working on Sherlock's buttons. It took him far too long to realise there were no buttons on the t-shirt. 

Sherlock shook his head, ‘Shhh.. you'll woken the thing.’

‘That's what I's... I... I'ma I saying. Saying? Doing. Doing the thing waking.’ John slurred, abandoning the imaginary buttons and moving on to slide his hand down the front of Sherlock's pyjamas.

‘No, no, no.’ Sherlock squirmed away from John. ‘No time for sexyfuntime. Time to look at my thing what I dub Julian.’ With that Sherlock scrambled back beneath the sofa. 

John bit viciously at his lower lip. He flipped between grumpiness and his desire to fondle Sherlock's backside, and was about tug down Sherlock's pants to blow another raspberry somewhere more intimate when he heard Sherlock whisper.

‘John, John quick, quick c'mere. It's talking.’

‘Whasit?’ John wriggled his way down to join Sherlock beneath the sofa.

‘S'Julian, John. Julian is talking now, shhh.’

John squinted into the dark. ‘Who's Julian?’

‘There,’ Sherlock pointed, ‘He's speaking quiet quiet so we have to be shhhh.’

John looked again. All he could see was a pen lid, a scrap of paper and a rather large dust bunny, which was where Sherlock was pointing. 

John glanced over at Sherlock who was nodding in agreement to a conversation John couldn't hear. John looked back at Julian and jerked in surprise when he thought he saw the dust bunny wink at him. He yelped, grabbing onto Sherlock's arm.

Sherlock slapped at John’s hand. ‘John, I'ma listen to Julian. Don't be rude.’

‘What is it?’

‘Shh!’

‘Sherlock, it winked at me. I'm scared.’

‘Iss Julian. _Julian_. See?’ Sherlock returned to his seemingly one-sided conversation. 

John, terrified, wriggled out from beneath the sofa. He attempted to stand but failed. So, with panic rising in his gut, he crawled and hid under the desk. He pulled out his phone and with clumsy fingers found Sherlock's number.

After several rings and some grumbling from the vicinity of the sofa, the call went through. ‘Sherlock... erm... ah Holmes.’

‘Sh'lock ist John.’

‘Who?’

‘Isss meee.’

‘Oh. What?’

‘Come out. Stop taking to Julian.’

‘Hold on.’ John heard Sherlock whispering indistinctly then, ‘He said you'd say that.’

‘Wha..? Who?’

‘Julian says I’m not to talk to you amny… aminy… annimee… no more and we’re getting married and you can be the flower girl.’

‘NO!’ John screamed down the phone. ‘NO!’ He called again, out into the room. John threw his phone down, shaking with fury. He crawled out from beneath the desk and attempted to stand again. 

Concentrating intensely he tottered to his feet and made his way to the broom closet. After four attempts at closing his fingers around the handle, he picked up the dustbuster and tip-toed wonkily toward the sofa.

John could hear Sherlock whispering now, replying to Julian. A wash of cold hatred prickled at John’s skin. Julian had to go. He scooted round to the opposite side of the sofa, switched on the dustbuster and waved it around under the seat.

‘Noooooooooooojuliaaaaan,’ Sherlock wailed. 

John smiled, awash with satisfaction. He gave the dustbuster a grateful stroke and dropped it onto the sofa.

Sherlock eventually quieted down to gentle sobs. Conflicted between his triumph over pure evil and his guilt at Sherlock's pain, John wobble-tottered about wondering what to do. Coming to the conclusion that Julian’s destruction was for the good of the planet, he gave a justified nod and decided Sherlock would have to just get over it. He grabbed the detective’s legs and pulled him out, though not without a struggle. Sherlock twisted his body like a cornered eel and flailed his arms making horrible screeching noises. 

John dropped Sherlock’s legs and stumble-fell onto him, straddling his hips and trying to get a hold of his flapping arms, all the while making soothing hushing sounds. At last Sherlock stopped struggling and with chest heaving he glared at John. John let go Sherlock’s arms and sat up.

‘You’re drunk!’ Sherlock hissed.

‘You’re high.’ John snapped back.

Sherlock flung his arm over his eyes, the picture of a swooning Victorian lady. ‘We were gonna get married. You were a flower girl, John.’

In a sudden flush of sobriety, John took Sherlock’s wrist, feeling the delicate bones beneath his fingertips, and gently moved it off his face. He bent low and brushed warm wine-stained lips over Sherlock’s tightly shut eyes, down his nose and breathed soft across his cheek. ‘Marry _me_ ,’ John whispered.

A low chuckle bounced about in Sherlock’s chest. He tossed his head from side to side with a wide grin on his face, his eyes still shut. ‘Psssht, John. No.’ He opened his eyes, two grey-blue-silver stars of amusement and patted John’s cheek. He blinked slow and happy with a wide closed-mouth smile and shut his eyes again. ‘Your face. Isss made of fondant and sssun flares.’

John sat back again. He stared a while at Sherlock’s serene, and ever-so-slightly-poisoned-by-mushrooms face. His brain tried to work through the current situation but his brief flash of sobriety hadn’t lasted. Instead, he picked up Sherlock’s wrist again and slapped his almost tame detective about the face with his own hand.

Sherlock’s eyes flashed open again, he pulled his wrist out of John’s grip. ‘What?’

John sighed. ‘Seriously, let’s get married.’

Sherlock wiggled himself up, propped on his elbows. ‘Really?’ He looked unconvinced.

‘You were happy to marry a ball of dust. Why not me?’ 

Sherlock pondered this a while with a face so pondery a pondering cartoon could not have outpondered him. After what seemed like an hour, Sherlock’s face cracked into a wide grin. ‘Alright, less do it. Garry’ll be flower girl.’

‘It’s Greg.’ John returned Sherlock’s grin and wiggled his arse on Sherlock’s crotch. ‘Really really though. Let’s do it. Let’s get married.’ He started bouncing in excitement.

‘I said yes, dint I.’ Sherlock rolled his eyes. ‘Do people cebrillate now, John? How do they celibrellate these things?’

‘Like dis.’ John lumbered off Sherlock, and creaked his way to standing. He stood perplexed for a few moments before remembering what he was doing. 

He began unbuttoning his shirt. It was difficult going for John, particularly as he still had his jumper on. In the end he figured out taking the jumper off and _then_ unbuttoning the shirt was the best method.

Sherlock was thoroughly enjoying this as evidenced by the barely stifled giggling fit he couldn't seem to control. 

‘John. John. John, pssst, John,’ he called between giggles. ‘John. Dance, John,’ he tittered. ‘Dance.’

John was already wavering unsteadily trying to peel off his socks, but he valiantly began to bop a little as he continued his slow and wibbly striptease.

Sherlock began to nod along to the same imaginary unrythmic beat John was bopping to. As John fumbled with his trousers, Sherlock hoisted himself onto hands and knees and began a panther-like prowl in John's general direction.

Halfway across the floor, Sherlock stopped and collapsed onto his face, fast asleep. His backside remained in the air for a few moments before finally deciding which direction to fall in. He curled up into a ball, drooling gently into the rug. 

Utterly oblivious, John continued his little bopping dance as he peeled off his trousers one leg at a time. He then raised them triumphantly proclaiming, ‘Ta-daaaa.’

He double-taked at Sherlock’s sleeping form and bumbled his way over, tongue poking out in concentration. 

‘Sh'lock,’ he whispered. ‘Psst, Sh'lock.’ He whacked Sherlock about the head with his trousers, to no avail. John gave a forlorn sigh. Shivering without his clothes on he lay down, curled himself around his fiancé, and joined him in his slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this tiny little scene: _Sherlock stopped and collapsed onto his face, fast asleep. His backside remained in the air for a few moments before finally deciding which direction to fall in_
> 
> I scribbled that down in a text to myself sometime in September 2013. Imagine then my utter delight watching this actually happening in The Sign of Three. Delight. Utter.


	29. Day 29 - Glasses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The green green glass of home.

It’s true. Sherlock Holmes is a man prone to moodiness. He has moods of moroseness, to blatantly steal a phrase. These are sometimes circumvented with a stern talking to and a smacked botty. _Sometimes._ Other times the moods are not the sort of moods that can be turned around with anything other than time and love. But never mind all that. This isn’t about Sherlock.

John Watson is not a man prone to moods of broody moodiness, but when the dark clouds do hit they hit hard. 

The first couple of times Sherlock tried a variety of remedies, from plying John with food and gentle music to putting his clever tongue to work as deep inside John as he could go. But while his efforts were appreciated, they rarely worked. 

(Well, except that one time with the tongue when John came in Sherlock’s eyes. The subsequent yelping and swearing and guiding to the bathroom sink got John out of the bed he’d been creating a funk in for the last few days and out to the chemist to fetch some soothing eye drops.)

And heaven forbid Sherlock try deducing what’s wrong. The last time he tried that he ended up in a screaming match with himself. 

There was one more thing up Sherlock’s expensive sleeves though. Something, of all people, Mycroft had taught him—and by taught he meant used on him.

So the next time John was stricken Sherlock tried what had worked for him as a child. He slipped beneath the covers of the bed and lay down facing John, a green glass tumbler in his hand. He stroked back the hair on John’s forehead and smoothed his eyebrows.

‘You don’t have to tell me anything, if you don’t want to,’ Sherlock whispered, ‘but it helps to let it out, whatever it is.’

John stared at him a while, then narrowed his eyes. ‘You read that in a book.’

Sherlock shrugged. ‘It’s sound advice isn’t it, whether I read it in a book or not?’

The corners of John’s mouth quirked down.

‘So, here.’ Sherlock pressed the glass into John’s hand. ‘You can tell the glass a whisper.’

John frowned at the glass. Then he frowned at Sherlock. Then frowned at the glass. Then frowned at Sherlock. This continued a while until he settled his frown on Sherlock and asked, ‘What?’

‘You can tell me a whisper if you like but if you don’t, tell your whisper to the glass.’

‘Whisper? You mean secret?’ John ran his thumb along the rim.

‘Same thing,’ Sherlock said.

John took a long breath in and a long breath out. He gazed at Sherlock until his eyes watered and then rolled over to face away.

Sherlock smoothed his hand over John’s back, listening to hushed breaths, until John rolled over again. He handed the glass back to Sherlock who took it with a reverence he usually reserved for dismembered limbs.

‘Shall I get rid of it?’ Sherlock asked. He wrinkled his nose, making a show of peering into the empty glass.

A tiny, tiny glimmer of light flashed in John’s eyes. The teeniest hint of a smile as he nodded against the pillow.

Sherlock gave him a decisive nod back and detangled himself from the bedclothes to discard some of his John’s pain. He reminded himself to perhaps one day thank Mycroft for occasionally coming in useful.


	30. Day 30 - Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A squinty hint of smut, some piracy requiring a magnifying glass to spot, and a broken nail. Just an average week at 221B.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [221b_hound](https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound) who said "let there be pirate shenanigans".  
> And so I said, "ok, there shall be pirate shenanigans".  
> And then Sherlock and John said, "screw you guys, we do what we want".  
> Honestly, they're so rude.
> 
> And for [Atlinmerrick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick). Thank you for the sanity check. For all the sanity checks.
> 
> And thank YOU, dear reader. Thanks for sticking with these 30 weird-arsed little tales of mine for well over 30 days.

This is the story of how Sherlock Holmes managed to temporarily blind John Watson.

 

Accidentally.

 

Twice.

 

 

It all began with a very small but very poorly timed explosion in the kitchen. That is how a passing John Watson caught a flying bit of hot resin to one eye.

  

Later that evening Sherlock Holmes paced up and down the living room of 221B. A remarkable feat of inner ear stability given the need to turn about every three paces.

John Watson sat in his armchair very much _not_ strangling Sherlock Holmes. A remarkable feat of self control given he’d almost lost his right eye that morning thanks to the very man.

Sherlock stomped to a halt in front of John. ‘How long?’

John ran his tongue along his teeth. He was breathing slowly. He was counting to ten. He was very very fucking calm.

‘Sorry, what?’ John gave Sherlock a sweet smile.

This should have alerted Sherlock to shut his mouth immediately and back away ten paces, but he was never overly sensible when it came to John. And that is why he said:

‘This.’ He waved his hand at the bandage over John’s eye. ‘How long is this supposed to stay on?’

John sniffed. But he was calm. A serene deep lake of calm and deep serene calmosity. Calm.

‘Maybe if you hadn’t…’ John began through gritted teeth. He stopped. Smiled sweetly again. Folded his hands in his lap. Breathed. ‘Two weeks.’

Sherlock harrumphed and returned to his pacing.

  

* * *

 

The second eye, well, that was a different thing altogether. That was down to a poorly placed finger with a broken nail and a particularly intense orgasm.

And that? It had started off with Sherlock neglecting to tell John that the cutlass (yes, cutlass) was really quite real and quite really sharp. It was only on severing the second of Sherlock’s buttons that John noticed the small stain of blood seeping through the fabric. He tested the edge on his thumb and found that, yes, it was indeed a sharpened blade.

After putting the cutlass away, John gave Sherlock a verbal tongue lashing during which John used the term “I’ll shiver _your_ timbers if you don’t behave” and Sherlock smirked and smouldered as hard as he could. This then led to a physical tongue lashing with both parties giving equal levels of lash.

And somewhere amid all that, John’s tricorn hat was flung into the fireplace and Sherlock’s shirt frantically removed and trampled beneath feet. And it was quite soon after _that_ that John discovered that Sherlock had the words _Captain Plunderpants_ written on his pants in glittery golden letters.

This of course led to the bedroom with Sherlock, on his back, sucking and nibbling at John’s lower lip, while John moved in long languid thrusts, sinking deep with each push. Hushed whispers and giggles and _yes captains_ were shared. Sherlock’s nimble fingers wandered over nipples and ran through hair as he rocked his hips in sync with John’s.

That then led to John’s head lolling off the seat of Sherlock’s chair, one leg hooked over the back and one over the armrest. Sherlock was busy in between, his lips stretched around John’s cock, tongue tracing veins and contours, spit frothing and shlurping and slicking the way as he bobbed. His fingers were busy stretching and opening until John arched his back and came with a whimper. Sherlock removed his fingers and replaced them with his tongue, slicking John’s arse with his own come.

That then led to John bent over the kitchen table, arms outstretched to grip the opposite side. Sherlock’s hands frantically sought purchase on John’s hips, John’s shoulders, John’s face as he pounded into him. John muttered broken incoherent words, though he managed to make ‘fuck, yes, plunder my pants, captain’ quite clear. Sherlock grunted soft little grunts to match each slap of skin against skin while the sharp end of a broken nail inched closer to John’s good eye.

  

* * *

 

But we’re getting way ahead of ourselves. The day after the explosion incident, John awoke to find a slim little gift box on his nightstand. Inside it lay an exquisite eye-patch. Velvet so black it drank in light and gave off none. To tie it on, no elasticated band for John—oh no—only fine black silk ribbons.

John plucked it from its bed of tissue paper, turned it admiringly this way and that, then tossed it at the far wall.

After a shower, a shave, a reapplied bandage on his right eye, and a jolly good rogering of his ears with cotton tips* he dressed and very nearly made it out of the bedroom without turning back and picking up the eye-patch. Very nearly. But he did. He did go back. He sighed—a lot. But he did it.

He found Sherlock on his chair in his maroon silk dressing gown, bare legs crossed daintily, and a piece of toast held frozen in front of his gaping maw.

‘What’s this?’ John held the eye-patch up.

Sherlock frowned and took an enormous bite of his toast. ‘You do ask the most inane questions, John,’ he said through a mouthful of soggy bread and jam.

‘You know what I mean. What is this? An apology? A fashion suggestion?’

‘Definitely the second one.’ Sherlock took another bite, then cocked his head at John who’s eyebrows seemed to be making a push for higher altitudes. ‘I have to run around being Sherlock Holmes, John. I can’t be seen out and about with an invalid.’

John gave a growl, and it was not a pleasant one. Nonetheless, an optimistic Sherlock shoved the last bite of toast in his mouth with a hungry twinkle in his eye and uncrossed his legs like some kind of homme fatale. His dressing gown fell wide open to reveal bare skin and his almost-hard cock flushing a pretty and darkening pink. For good measure Sherlock raised a languid hand to his freshly licked lips, bit the tip of his index finger and fluttered his eyelashes.

At any other time John would have fallen to his knees and buried himself in the warm musky and very exposed land between Sherlock’s legs. But now was not that time. Now was the time for John to look at his emotionally tone-deaf darling as though he’d sprouted antlers out his nose.

‘You always say the sweetest things.’

Sherlock shrugged, palms raised. ‘I _am_  rather wonderful.’

John rolled his eyes and left Sherlock to his self-congratulation.

 

 

Four days later, John’s good eye fell upon the eye-patch, which he’d shoved into his sock drawer in a small huff. A larger huff would have seen it tossed in the bin but, unbeknownst to John, his subconscious had other plans. Because that sneaky part of his brain—the bit that hid, naked and dishevelled, under a blanket fort and whispered things—had leered at Sherlock’s bawdy display and licked its theoretical lips.

The subconscious whispers did their work while John changed his bandages and scrubbed the adhesive residue from his skin. He placed a smaller pad over his eye then, after tap-tap-tapping his finger on the bathroom basin for thirty seconds—which is a long time to be tap-tap-tapping—he picked up the eye-patch.

 

 

It was only a passing thought for Sherlock—the eye-patch. He saw an opportunity, he found an eye-patch, John wasn’t interested, that was the end of the matter. He certainly did not pout, not even a little, when he shoved the tricorn hat, cutlass, egg whisk, and silver crotch-high boots right to the back of his wardrobe.

He did not expect to slam the door shut and find John standing there, like a serial killer in a horror movie. Sherlock screamed (he won’t admit it, ask John) and scrambled his limbs into a defensive pose, until, _oh_. He was wearing it. Over his bandage. He was wearing _it_.

The muscles currently engaged in posing him like a baritsu master relaxed while other muscles required for doing more vigorous and rhythmic things began warming up.

‘So, how do I look? Is this everything you hoped for?’

‘And more,’ breathed Sherlock.

John took a step forward. He rested his arms on Sherlock’s shoulders. ‘There’s more?’

‘N-N-No, I was just, oh, but yes, there is. More. If if if you like,’ Sherlock stumbled through his words, a blush of red rising high on his cheeks and down his neck.

‘Go on then. What’ve you got?’

Sherlock extricated himself from John’s embrace. ‘Really?’

‘How likely is it I’d say no? Remember the piccolo? We both learnt a lot about my limits the day you brought that home.’

Sherlock hadn’t waited for John to finish speaking before diving into the wardrobe. He grabbed his paraphernalia, kicked the wardrobe door closed, and dumped everything on the bed. ‘Strip,’ he commanded over his shoulder.

‘Strip? Right, yeah,’ John toed off his shoes, ‘who needs foreplay anyway?’ He pulled off his shirt and jumper in one go, dumped them on the floor and sat on the end of the bed to pull his jeans off. He squinted at the items on the bed. ‘Oh god, is this a pirate thing? What’s the _hell_ is the whisk for?’

Sherlock picked it up. ‘I was looking for some sort of hook hand.’ He mimed clawing at the air. ‘Arrr, that sort of thing.’

‘And you found a whisk? What were you planning on doing with it?’ John wriggled his jeans and pants off his ankles and kicked them away.

Sherlock waved the whisk at John’s mostly soft cock, flopped sleepily in its nest of curls. ‘Oh, you know. This and that.’

Almost as a reflex, John’s hands flew straight to protect Little John from the terrible metal enemy. ‘This and that? No. No, there’ll be no this and that-ing anywhere near me. And I’ll certainly not be this and that-ing anywhere near you. Put it away.’

Sherlock tossed the whisk over his shoulder. He grabbed the boots and held them up.

‘Now those I’m on board with. Give ‘em here.’

Sherlock scratched at his knuckles and rocked from foot to foot as he watched John make a show of pulling on first one boot then the other.

‘You’ve made a mess, John,’ Sherlock breathed out. ‘Pick your clothes up off the floor.’ Sherlock nibbled at his steepled index fingers.

John gave him a wicked smirk and swished his hips, stopping at each little puddle of clothing to bend over, exposing everything to Sherlock.

Sherlock’s tooth slipped and bit down too hard on his nail. He pulled at it with his teeth, leaving a perfect sharp little edge. He glared at it a moment and was about to fetch the nail scissors from the bathroom when he was tackled to the floor by a flying Watson crying, ‘I’ll send you to the brig yer scurvy rascal.’

  

* * *

 

So really, whether the nail in the eye was Sherlock’s fault or John’s is all a bit hazy. Either way, Sherlock had to care for his temporarily blinded doctor and John, well, John quickly learnt to use his fingers to _see_  all sorts of things.

If you ask me, they’re both as bad as each other. Which is to say as good as each other. It’s hard to tell that as well, not that John and Sherlock care. They couldn’t give two hoots what we think and that is as it should be.

 

 

 

 

* * *

*Though as a doctor he should have known that they must never _ever_ go _inside_  the ear canal—your friendly Public Service Announcement for the day.

 

 

 


End file.
